This one calls me darling and dear, and shows up in my bedroom at 4 in the morning after he finishes his bartending shift. We choose our words cautiously as we shyly begin to intersect our lives, and it is frustrating and uncertain and a little bit exciting. This is what it is to actually date normally, though, when you’re not living out of a backpack.
I don’t think I like it.
Too soon, I let the perfect amount of liquid courage lubricate my mind and my wonderings slip out. A remnant from before—when unclear titles became expensive quickly—I want to know what this is. I need to know just how much I should let myself want this.