George, my bipolar neighbor, would never lay a hand on me. The guy loves me! Being a caseworker, the first time we spoke, I picked up on his behavior right away. I’m sure he wasn’t used to what he got from me.
A hug.
I told George that I worked with a lot of people who suffered mental illness, and that if he felt a panic attack coming on that I would be there for him; all he needed to do was call. Which he has done. And I’ve always been there to help talk him down and soothe him from the overwhelming state he finds himself in. He has never – I repeat – never been violent towards me. So I’m a little pissed at Nikki right now.
I glower at her, “Don’t you do that, Nikki! That’s not cool, babe.”
“Do what?” she responds, exasperated.
Staring her down a moment, I state, “Stereotype.”
Brows rising, she whispers, “Holy shit. I totally did, didn’t I?” Taking a step away from me, her brows bunch. She’s obviously upset with herself. And now I feel like shit.
Taking her hand, I sigh, “Babe, I’ll explain everything later, I promise. But right now, I’ve got cocoa to make, you’ve got niknaks to slice, and we’ve got to come up with a way for Dave to make this right with Phil.” Gesturing to my face, I tell her, “This…is not a priority right now.”
Her eyes search my face, and I add, “Do I look like a withering mess right now?”
Rolling her eyes, she responds sullenly, “Well, no.”
Nodding, I agree, “Exactly, Nikki. Priorities.” She throws me a curt nod. I feel the need to add quietly, “Because what I’ve got to tell you…it’s not pretty.”
Her face turns anxious, but she covers it quickly. Clapping her hands together, she opens the fridge, hands me the milk and orders, “Right! Cocoa à la Lexi. Now, lady!”
This is one of the reasons I love Nikki. She knows me well enough to know I’ll talk to her when I’m ready. And we don’t keep secrets.
So why am I thinking of a suitable lie to tell her about the state of my face?
Pushing that thought aside, I go about making my famous concoction and pouring the steaming goodness into mugs. Placing the cocoa and bite-sized squares of niknaks on a tray, I walk them into the lounge room and put them on the coffee table.
Not even looking up at me, Dave reaches forward and takes a mug. Robotically, he puts the mug to his lips and sips. Two, three, four sips later, the robot comes back to life. “Damn, girlie. No one does cocoa like you do.”
Smiling gently, he looks up at me, and his face turns stunned, “Baby! What happened to your face?”
Lying like a pro, I shrug and say easily, as if rehearsed, “Tripped on the last step down and planted my face into the brick hall.” He gasps, and looking up in thought, I add to lighten the mood, “Not as much fun as it sounds.”
Dave chuckles, “Shit, Lex. Only you would do something like that. Queen klutz, you are.”
Smiling through my split lip, I glance over at Nikki. Her eyes narrow at me, and unease climbs over me. Clearing my throat, I take my mug and announce, “Right! Well I think the first course of action tonight is finding a way for Dave to tell Phil he wants him to move back in.”
Dave smiles at me so warmly, so brightly, that I’m suddenly reminded that there are people I also have that I can talk to about my issues. My mind stills on this thought.
People I can talk to.
Talk to.
Talk to them.
Don’t talk to them.
They would never understand.
I don’t want them to understand.
Twitch is mine. Just mine. And right now, I like it like that.
That night, my eyes flutter.
Then widen in alarm.
Then soften with my sleepy smile.
His hand rests gently on my hip as he maintains his distance, his body away from mine.
Closing my eyes, I listen to his steady breathing as he sleeps.
My last thought before I fall asleep is, “He came back.”
The next morning, Twitch isn’t there when I wake. Again. But it doesn’t bother me as much.
I’m thinking less and less about that night, and more about my hero.
My distant hero.
I find myself purposefully making my way to the park for lunch in hopes of seeing him. And today, I do see him. My spine tingles in recognition, I lift my head, and there he is.
Today is unlike other days. It is unlike other days, because his hood is down.
When I smile and lift my hand in a wave, I feel like slapping my forehead with my palm. Embarrassed, I lower my hand quickly and watch as he turns and walks away.
I don’t miss the smile he tries to keep hidden.
Biting my lip to hold in my own escaping smile, I lift my face to the sun, and once again, take in its light.
Roused from my sleep, I enter the world of consciousness. Snuggling into something warm, I breathe deeply. And smell him.
I love his smell.
Nuzzling into the crook of his neck, I feel him move, then hesitate. I steady my breathing and place my hand on his tee-covered chest. Still, he hesitates. Feigning sleep, I lift my leg over his and feel his body shake in silent chuckles.
I want his arms to come around me. I want him to hold me tight. I silently wish for him to make a move.
But he doesn’t.
He rumbles, “Get back to sleep.”
No longer able to conceal my grin, I whisper into his neck, “Sweet dreams, Twitch.”
My eyes flutter and I lose my battle to stay awake, just to memorize the feel of his body against mine.
Three days have passed, and every day this week has had the same routine. This is great for me because there’s security in predictability. I feel safer and am less jumpy. My day’s routine goes something like this:
*Wake up alone.
*Feel Twitch watching me at lunch. Sometimes catch him. Sometimes don’t.
*Make my way home, where I have a slight freak out in the unit parking lot.
*Go to bed alone. Wake during the night wrapped around Twitch.
Which is where I’m at now.
Wrapped around Twitch.
Tonight is a little different though. Tonight, he’s ventured under the covers with me and removed his tee.
My head rests on his bare chest, my arm wrapping around him much like I’d hug a teddy bear, my leg draping over him, trapping the both of his. Feeling me wake, his arm snakes around my back. Trailing his fingers across my shoulder, he asks quietly, “You good?”
I take a moment to think about that. Am I good?
Considering that my private area is tingling, and my nipples are so taut they could cut through glass, I’d say yes.
Rubbing my cheek along his pec, I breathe him in and reply on a soft exhale, “Yeah.”
His fingers still at my back; he loosens his hold on me and utters sleepily, “Sleep.”
Taking a second to give him a tight squeeze, I relax and exhale.
Twitch doesn’t say much. He doesn’t need to. You know that saying actions speak louder than words? His actions are speaking for him. And I like what they’re saying.
I wonder if he’ll let me keep him.
Today has officially became a rewind day.
You know those days that are so tiring and draining; the type of day where everything annoys you and no one can say a right thing to you? My day has been one of those.
Why a rewind day?
Because you wish you could hit rewind and start it over in a much better way.
It all started last night. I had spent a little more time getting ready for bed. I shaved my legs, moisturised, and wore a plain but short nightie instead of my regular Elmo pajama combo. I made sure I sprayed myself with deodorant and perfume, and made sure my hair wasn’t too unruly. Once I deemed myself kissable, I checked myself in the mirror one last time before sliding under the covers, making sure to show enough skin to look enticing to a certain someone I was beginning to have a major a
ttraction to.
I mean, the attraction was there from the first time he lowered his hood, but as of the last few days, that attraction has quadrupled.
And I was going to do something about it.
I went to sleep thinking that this night would be the night we connected. Emotionally and physically. And I was looking forward to it.
There was one little hitch in my plan.
Twitch never came.
I woke in the morning alone. I lifted my head to find the opposite side of my bed untouched.
And it hurt. I was irrationally hurt.
My chest ached, and somewhere deep in my gut, I knew our time together was finished.
Which brings us to today’s bad day. I’m sure my lips are in a perpetual state of pout, while my brow is stuck in the state of furrow. I must look like a ten-year-old who has been told she can’t have any candy.