I don’t want him in the same way they want him.
I mean I sort of don’t. Maybe I do, in that I want to kiss him and touch him– mostly I want him to touch *me,* actually– but I’m wiping cigar ash off of little round tables and picking up empty glasses covered in the swirling fingerprints of big, dangerous men and I’m watching him, watching him smile as he pours another drink. He leans forward to whisper something into a man’s ear.
I’m not staring at the way his lips move. I’m not imagining the way those lips might feel on mine. Okay, I am. A lot. Every time I see him, and some of the times I don’t, I spend a lot of time thinking about my skin pressing against his in as many places and as many ways as possible. I think about running my fingers through his blond hair, watching the curls spring back into place in the wake of my hand. Doing that thing where you grab them by the back of the neck and kiss them. In the rain. On a train platform. Because he’s moving to Japan or something.
I watch a lot of movies.