Too Much

Nicholas Sparks this week I think. I'm lying in bed with him, after an awful night at work where I wished the entire night to be exactly here, and I have the thought that terrifies me more than any other stupid thing I've done so far.

What if I love him?

Only I didn't quite phrase it as a question. But for some reason, even typing what I really thought gives me too much to lose. None of it makes sense, none of it adds up. He has habits that would make me cringe if it wasn't him and he reminds me of my father, and though it's not in any of the ways that should send up alarms, I still know that any resemblance to him should be avoided. But even though his bathroom is gross, he absolutely cannot be convinced to put dishes in the dish washer, and he reeks after he works out (something that has always bothered me for some reason), I can't find it in me to care. When I see his bathroom, I simply want to clean it; the dirty peanut butter knife always finds its way to the dishwasher by my hand and I smile at the thought of picking up after him, as though we have an easy familiarity that means more than simply time passing; and when he comes in from an hour-long run, I'm drawn to him, not repulsed, even if he smells like a locker room. I know those are not the right thoughts to have and that I would come to resent him for the damn peanut butter knife, but I'm content for now with simply recognizing that and then pushing it from my mind.

After all, today he cleaned the entire kitchen. Even all my messes.

And maybe it's true that girls get too emotionally involved in what's just the physical. But he is perfection. Impossible to resist is certain, but I can't even try. I never wanted to and I would rather spend all day in his bed and in his arms than doing anything else. No one could say I was ever cold or distant, but I could lie with him, tangled in sweating sheets, for as long as I could believe the stars go on.

And I could imagine that he feels the same ache that burns me when our eyes are mirrors and our movements cry.