“Pay attention. Watch how he treats his mother and listen to how he speaks to his friends about you and watch how he acts when he’s drunk and it’s 2 am and he’s lost in his whiskey-scrambled thoughts. Is he kind to waiters? How does he treat the homeless elderly man in the wheelchair asking for some spare change on the corner of First and Colorado? Make sure you pay attention. When it’s late at night and you’re curled up in his arms on his lime-green couch- the one with the red cushions- and you’re tracing the letters permanently inked on his chest, how does he respond? Does he draw you closer? Smile? Pay attention. When he’s tired, does he raise his voice at you? Does he ignore you? If he does, you should pack your bags and run. Or stay, and watch him cook you crepes with sliced (not chopped!) strawberries and an obscene amount of hazelnut-chocolate spread- just the way you like- as a wordless apology even though he’s tired and just worked a 12-hour shift and spent 5 hours at the studio working on his music. Watch him take the dishes and wash them for you because he knows you hate the feeling of grease on your fingers when you have to do the dishes. Watch him kiss you good night and hear him whisper “I love you, baby, I’m never going to leave you” when he thinks you’re asleep. Make sure you pay attention. Listen to him sing in the kitchen in the morning when he thinks you’re sound-asleep and he’s getting ready for work. Listen. Remember his voice. The songs he’s singing. Hazey. Glass Animals. Gold Dust Woman. Fleetwood Mac. Watch him prepare your morning coffee just the way you like it- 1 part coffee, 2 parts hazelnut creamer, with ice- as he sips his straight. Breathe in the sharp, spicy scent of his cologne- and he always smells of it to hide the scent of marijuana (the Devil’s Cauliflower, as he calls it) clinging to his clothes- when he kisses you to say goodbye in the morning. Make sure you pay attention. Listen to him talk when you’re cuddled up in bed at 4 pm on a lazy Sunday, just listen. He wants a dog, a French bulldog that he’d name Tommy, he loves magic tricks, he hates asparagus, he wants to live in Amsterdam, he loves his mother but hates his father, he’s afraid of failure. Remember everything. Afterwards, don’t say anything. Just hold him. Hold him tight. Make love. Your hands tangled in his hair, his pulling you closer, lips and tongue translating what words you can’t bring yourself to say. Make sure you pay attention. Does he hold you after you fuck? Or does he roll over and fall asleep? Do you just lay there and talk? Pay attention. Listen to him talk about his last ex who, according to him, was crazy, and would follow him around the city in her car to spy on him, and try to figure out if she really was crazy, or if he’s projecting some kind of pent-up male anger. Decide if you’re going to leave or stay. If you stay, make sure you know what you want. Don’t waste your own time, and don’t waste his either. Let him kiss you hard, and don’t overthink the message behind it. He’s probably high. He usually is. You can leave whenever you want. But his eyes, his goddamn eyes, they’re so green, and you find your resolve wavering. Is he crying? Is he begging? Fuck. He is. You’ve never seen him cry before. Not when his dad left. Not when you watched the wedding scene in Crazy Rich Asians. Not when his best friend died. He loves you. Holy shit. It’s real. He wasn’t just faking it. He’s breathing hard, his chest shaking from the force. He’s looking at you, green eyes pleading and you realize, holy fuck, you love this boy. And in that moment, you know what you have to do.”
2087
blakekathryn
ellievsbear
areudirty
