The Girl From Across The Street [FM] [Cute] [Romantic]

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I know who I am to you, the girl from across the street, living in a concrete block much like you, just a different one. That one girl you talked to once, but we don’t even know each other’s names. Then we met again at the store, and you smiled at me before you walked past, and I still stood there for a minute until I realized that I should probably start moving again. The briefest of moments, but somehow they stuck with me, I keep remembering them.

I have seen you a handful of times since, but you didn’t see me. It was just me gazing out the window as I needed a break from doing the dishes, or me standing there with a glass of wine and wondering if I would catch a glimpse of you as you return home. Okay, I’ll admit, I shouldn’t have done that. Shouldn’t have started to crush on a guy I talked to once, and met twice.

And I can’t quite put my finger on why I even am, because there is no denying that I have. I know that you won’t make a move in my direction, you wouldn’t even think of it. I’m not even sure if you remember anything we talked about, and you probably have friends enough already. I’ve seen you twice with other chicks now, and they looked friendly with you and weren’t hooked into your arm or anything. Just the thing that I was thinking about, I just want to be your friend, nothing worse.

I want to get off the subway and wonder if I should take the left or right side of the street, if I’ll spend the evening at my place or at yours. I want to ring at your doorbell, not have the key to your apartment. I want to walk through your door and sit in your couch, and feel a little bit out of place there.

I want those moments when we bake cookies at your place, and you don’t have enough sugar so I hurry over and fetch mine. Want to ridicule you after a month that you have never been to my place, and that you are probably afraid. I want you to wonder if it would be okay to touch me on the arm to motion me to step aside, and me to wonder when you finally dare to try.

I want us to have this quirky friendship that isn’t void of flirting undertones, but doesn’t boil over the second time we meet. No, we’ll sit there in your couch, eventually in mine, and we will find our balance in talking about life and laughing about it. You’ll be so incredibly cute with the way you buy a wine set you never needed and ask me if I want to try it out with you, and I’ll notice that one book we talked about two weeks ago, and now you’re reading it to see what I liked so much about it.

We live too close for those cute little games of forgetting my sweater or you giving me a book where a little letter falls out by the time I open it. No, our cute little game will be to stand by our windows, and yell across the street to ask if the other has time and leisure. “You feel like baking?”, you’ll yell across the street, and I’ll rush to collect my things and hope my cheeks aren’t red anymore by the time I knock at your door.

And it will be that day when I have your hands on my shoulders, but only so that we can laugh about the white imprints from your hands that were full of flour. We’ll finish mixing the ingredients with me walking around like that, and then I’ll rub my back against the backrest of your couch and laugh at getting back at you.

We will spend the evening drinking wine and making conversation, and I won’t quite forget the way your hands felt on my body. My thoughts will stray and I will struggle to focus on your words and meaning, and you’ll notice of course. But being the guy you are, it’ll make you a bit uneasy, make you wonder if you went too far and if that fun moment cost you our friendship. Of course it won’t, but you’ll be afraid still.

It will take us an hour for me to ease your mind, and an hour from there before you make your second advance. It’ll be late enough for me to use that as an excuse, to find a polite way of withdrawing and still allow us to meet again the week after. But I won’t, I’ll bite into a cookie or a piece of cake, whatever it is that we baked, and watch you silently. I’ll get ready to say something about getting over yourself, but then I’ll catch myself when I realize that it’s not encouragement you need, just time.

You needed these months behind us as much as I needed them, to grow used to each other and slowly ease our way into whatever this is that we are doing. It isn’t really lust, is it? No, if it was our bodies that we craved we could have found a way to do that long ago. It isn’t any sort of marriage in the making either, we won’t be having kids and a house and a divorce after they have grown up enough to no longer rely on us.

This is just two people who no longer have enough reasons to stay apart, and if we don’t fall asleep on the couch together we’ll do so in our own beds, and I’ll walk over to my apartment that has never felt lonely before. I’ll fall asleep thinking about walking back over to you, or maybe I can still think ahead far enough to ensure that I don’t ever leave your couch that night.

No, I’ll stay put, and if your hands leave my feet I’ll slide down far enough to poke you with my toes, request that you remedy the mistake of letting go of me for even a moment.

You’ll sit there, wondering how you could possibly find a way to get next to me, behind me, wrap your arms around me like we both want you to. I’ll sit there, wondering how I can get up and twist and shift to make it easier for you, and it’ll be awkward as hell when we both try at the same time.

But somehow we’ll find our way into each other’s arms, pull the blanket over us, and you’ll be so cute in your attempts to not rush anything, to hold me without really touching me anywhere that isn’t safe. But then, slowly, you’ll come to the realization that nothing on my body is safe to touch, and if I don’t complain about your fingers on my stomach, I probably won’t complain about your lips on my cheeks, my neck.

Sure, we’ll need some time before my breasts can touch your fingers, but it’s a matter of minutes and not hours, and just a little shift of mind to get us there. I will lean back and say something to you that is supposed to dare you to go further, but will sound differently to your ears and make you pause. I’ll reach up for your wrist and pull it down, showing you what I really meant and where I really want you.

And you’ll struggle with how little resistance either of us shows anymore, how little strength we can muster to tell the other no, or wait, or do things differently. You’ll have no clue how or where to touch me, and I’ll have no clue where I want to be touched. You’ll try and rub my nipples, and I will hold my breath instead of letting out the sigh you’d need to properly judge if it is working. You’ll run your fingers down my thighs and I’ll shift and wiggle and you’ll misjudge that for something it’s not, and walk back to safer areas.

And I’ll get so fed up with myself and my body’s inability to communicate its needs, and revert to opening my lips and outright telling you what I want. I’ll try to remain calm and cute, but it will come out like begging. And that will make me blush and cringe and hate myself before your fingers brush all those feelings away.

You’ll wiggle out from under me, get on top of me and kiss my cheek, then my lips, then steady your weight on one arm while the other tries to pull my pants down. You’ll realize that that won’t work, get back off me and sit by my side so you can use both of your hands, and I’ll fall in love with that cute smile. I’ll crush so hard on your absent-minded look as you lay your eyes on my naked body for the first time, and the twitches on your face as you touch my glistening lips as if you’ve never seen something like that before.

I can see you trying to act cute with me, pressing a kiss on my thighs and getting ready to move your head between my legs. But I’ll reach down, pull you up, tell you that I don’t need your finesse tonight, that you have shown enough restraint already. And you’ll understand me, and it will be the last time you understand anything I say, at least before your eyes clear up again and you see the woman underneath you that you kind of forgot was there.

You’ll probably be afraid of yourself and feel like you should say sorry, for forgetting yourself so much that you stopped caring what I wanted, for taking from me what you wanted. But I’ll hold you by your wrist, unable to say anything for a solid minute, waiting until my own breathing slows enough to even whisper anything. I’ll probably try a thank-you, or maybe an exhausted giggle, and I’ll make damn sure to pull you near and press your body against mine to show you that I never minded anything you did to me.

And we will fall asleep like that, your arm wrapped around me, you saying half-sentences and me trying my best to come up with half-responses. It’ll get weird that night, with either of us waking the other up, and all those weird things you talk about when there is an important topic you would rather avoid.

And when we wake up, we’ll look at the clock and realize it’s too late to get up early, and that we might as well call in sick to work and stay in bed. Eventually we’ll make breakfast together, but we won’t put on our clothes to do that. We’ll stand there in your kitchen, undressed, distressed, each of us making attempts to say things we feel are adequate in a situation like this. I’ll tell you something about not worrying about me, that I won’t become too attached, and then end with “if you don’t want” and bite my lips over how that sounds. You’ll tell me the opposite, about how much this night behind us means to you, and then bite your lip over how cliche that sounds or whatever it is that you were trying to avoid.

And then, my friend, we’ll end up in your bed, and you’ll spend hours massaging and caressing me, and anytime that makes you hard I will be there for you, waiting.

But then again, none of that will ever happen, unless I wait down by your door tonight, and make a huge leap out of my comfort zone to bring myself to say a simple hello. The time is drawing near when you will probably come home, and I still haven’t quite found the mental strength to put on real clothes, tie up my shoes, and walk down those steps and cross the street.

I will, I promise, to my own reflection in the window. But that reflection is doubtful, it has heard me make promises before.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/r41f39/the_girl_from_across_the_street_fm_cute_romantic