In a cold, cluttered study dimly lit by a bulb encased in a thick layer of grime, a man stands surveying old, flaking walls filled with bookshelves and cabinets, head cocked on one side as he impatiently tuts and looks around him. A room once the hub of his home and working life now sits dormant and forlorn in the cold October sun peering through cracks in the yellowed blinds. A room once so lively and loved now seems as alone and lost as the man standing within.
I like his hands. I like putting my hands against his and we gasp at how much bigger his fingers are than mine. I like it when we play wrestle, and his fingers wrap around mine.
I like his hair. I like to run my fingers through it and play with it. I like it when he leans against me and the smell of his hair sinks into my clothes and I feel like he’s a part of me.
I like his eyes. They’re blue green, with flecks of gold that show up in the sunlight. I like the way they crease when he laughs and light up like a thousand stars when he smiles.
I like his smile too, and his laugh. He sometimes lets out a small chuckle, other times laugh so hard that almost no sound comes out. And all the while he’s smiling that gorgeous smile, and when it’s directed at me I can’t help but go weak at the knees.