I Don’t Know How To Write About You

I don’t know what to write about you. But I know I need to write something about you.

I could write about you pushing Ray-Bans up the bridge of your nose, your hair slicked back, not a square inch untouched by some sort of hair product. Or about how you were crass, vulgar — all-around obnoxious. I could write about how when we met, you had Yuengling running down the back of your hand as you handed me the bottle. “Come on,” you said. “You have some catching up to do.”

I could write about taking shots in bars and singing along to songs that we didn’t know nearly enough words to. Songs that we sang out of tune. I could write about the excuses I found to put my hand on your arm because your skin was soft like a down blanket. It was tan and had goose bumps because the tips of my fingers were cold, but it was like silk. I can’t write about the excuses I found to look into your eyes, because I couldn’t find any. But I did it anyway. To be frank, I wasn’t all that interested in looking longingly into your eyes.

I don’t know what to write about you. I wasn’t picturing a future with you. Because you would have kissed me with the ferocity of a thousand lions. And I need to be kissed as delicately as one would touch the keys of a piano in a Debussy classic. I wasn’t expecting you to bring home flowers, or frozen yogurt, or introduce me to your friends. I didn’t intend to introduce you to mine. I didn’t expect you to add me on Facebook, or even put my real name in your phone. You didn’t need to ask my how my day is going. You didn’t even need to call me at all while the sun was out. I didn’t want you to ask my dog’s name or if I preferred Butter Pecan or Rocky Road.

I wasn’t wondering if our children would inherit your McDreamy-esque hair, or your sense of style, or your somewhat tactless sense of humor. I wasn’t picturing children at all. Or a cake, or plastic figures, or a first dance, or a shattered wine glass.

I don’t know what to write about you. All of my life I’ve been conservative. Old-fashioned. But with you, I didn’t feel like being conservative. With you, I felt like taking a cab back to your apartment and throwing all my values, and ethics, and beliefs, and hopes out the window. I felt like being kissed with the intensity of an Aerosmith anthem. I didn’t want to be kissed with the subtlety of a Celine Dion ballad. I didn’t need to put my head on your chest and hear your throbbing chest beating. I didn’t need to hold hands with you across the dinner table at Angelo’s.

I wasn’t imagining how it would end, and it would end. Because you would have kissed me with the vigor of a stage five hurricane. And I need kisses with the fragility of carrying a full mug of freshly brewed coffee the seven steps from the counter to the island in the kitchen. It would have ended before it began. And that didn’t frighten me.

I wasn’t bothered by the image of you kissing someone else with the hostility of Zeus. I wasn’t naïve enough to think that I was the only one you were kissing this way. I didn’t lose sleep picturing her lifting your wife-beater over your head and putting her hands on your rock solid torso and returning your kiss with the wrath of Hera.

I just don’t know what to write about you. All I can think to write is about your kiss, with the ferocity of a thousand lions. Until I put my hand on your chest and you kiss me with the tenderness that you would something delicate, something fragile, something you want to take care of. Something you do not want to break.