It's raining today. The perfect kind of rain. Not the type that crashes against the window, but more like the type that feels like a spray in the breeze. Zig-zagging little trails criss-cross down the window.
We're sitting silent. Me on the bed and you on the floor. You're eating Starburst out of a bag on the floor and shooting wrappers into the trash can. A few pink wrappers litter the floor from the times that you missed. You don't miss much.
I just watch you because there is nothing else to do. You're eating all my candy, but I don't mind. It's lazy. It's peaceful. For once. My brain's in overdrive trying to pick up all the little details so that I can replay this later.
It's never perfect. But this afternoon is pretty close. I'm not waiting for the phone to ring. I'm not listening for the sound of your car pulling up. I'm not worrying. You're here.
We've decided. We're not talking about anything else, just right now. No cell phones; we surrender them to each other. I comment on your expression and then you start to sing. Off key, with your own words, your singing cracks me up.
I get my guitar. I try to play along, but I can't keep up. You mix up all the music. I laugh along but eventually give up and lie back down. You get up to open the windows and then you sit down next to me. The rainy air sweeps in and it smells like mud.
We're opposite. But you say it doesn't matter. Right now, I believe you. We don't fit. But you've never cared and neither have I. I match my hand to yours. My fingers look like twigs next to yours, you cover them up completely.
We daydream together. Summer is coming so soon. You promise to have more time. I promise to make a better effort. We laugh because this is what we always say. Our problems are significant, but our non-problems are such soulcandy.
I laugh at your inane jokes and its miraculous that your phone rings, but you don't move. We talk about nothing at all. I fall asleep and wake up and fall asleep again. You're still here! You say that you forgot to check the time. 'Oh Well, plans ruined.' You play it off like it's no big deal. I think I want to marry you because I know thats not true.
We walk slowly through the rain to your car. You let me drive. I forget to shift gears so you decide it's better that you drive. I roll down the windows. You roll them back up. No rain in your car you say.
You play the playlist that reminds you of me. It's cozy. We drive by the lake and you show me the sailboats. The other cars speed by, challenging you with flashing lights. But we just coast along, contributing to global warming in 2nd gear.
We turn down our dinner plans and pick up kebabs to eat in the car instead. You drive and eat at the same time. Its gross. I protest and finally you pull over at a park where you say we can see the peacocks. There are no peacocks in the rain.
We put the seats all the way back to watch the rain hit the roof of the car. Matt Nathanson is singing and my seat vibrates. We can't hear each other talk. We lay back and eat the nasty strawberry-banana icecream that you like so much.
Not tomorrow, not yesterday, just right now.
