Watching him, still grinning, you wait for him to figure things out, and you wait for the response with patience. You can’t help but smile, it’s really nice, you like the way his lips felt, but shit man. He’s not reacting the way you thought he would! Your smile fades and you shift back a bit, passing him the joint. You shift your feet awkwardly, kicking a few stones on the ground.
“UhHh, ShIt MaN, dId I fUcKiNg ReAd ThEm SiGnAlS bAcKwArDs?” you look at him, brows furrowed and lips pulled into a frown, before you laugh. “YoU cAn FoRgEt ThAt, MaN! i WaS jUsT fUcKiNg WiTh YoU.”
Rubbing at your nose, you reach into your pocket and pull out a pack of cigarettes, overwhelmed by the need for one. You shift in your spot and look to the side. Truth is, you sort of just wanted to kiss him. It was a nice experience, a good feeling, a sort of connection almost, something to enjoy, but obviously not forever.
It's somehow more of a disappointment than it is a relief when he says he's just fucking around, and that much is a shock to you. Mada isn't the first person you think of when you think about romance; the guy doesn't have a romantic bone in his body, and what you have with him is -- is what?
The other day you did your geometry homework with your textbook spread in his lap and him spread in yours, dozing. He hadn't been feeling well, like he often doesn't, in a way that only physical contact can cure, so you let him. You let him, but only him, touch you without asking first.
You always imagined that if you became romantically involved with someone that you would do it by the books. Ask them out, probably with some gesture like flowers and a smooth line; go out to dinner, be a gentleman, pay the bill; holding hands before kissing, kissing before cuddling. It'd be like the movies, and you'd be the leading man.
In your movies, Mada would be the best friend they wrote in for comic relief. A goofball, a screwup, a loser.
You don't know what love is supposed to feel like, but you care for him. And, watching him light up and try to play it cool, you feel like you pity him, too. Maybe that's where these things start.
You lean in, tilting your body so you can look at him even with his face turned away from you. "You're a piss poor liar," you tell him. "The least you can do is try to come up with a better excuse if you want to make out with me."
