“You’re the only one who really knew me at all”

As Phil Collins quietly pleads his case, I am so engrossed in this silly list about what to look for in a good piece of fiction that I almost forget about you. But that’s the best part about having you here; I can forget about you for a moment, but then when something triggers the flood of memories, the words you give me and the little things I have spent so long missing, all I have to do look up from my menial lists and catch your eye.

Right now you’re here, splayed across my pink sheets reading Steinbeck. The music changes while I soak you in. This is my contentment, the simplicity of unrehearsed comfort. You start singing along to Carly Simon before you notice I have stopped with my list making. Your smirk pulls me away from my desk and towards you. As I move closer, you mark your page and toss your hero aside. I stop at the edge of the bed; I’m rarely sure how long I will have here, so I can’t be made to rush anything. Plus I’m a little mean and I like to watch you squirm in the game of whose move is it. You give in this time as your left hand entangle itself in my hair and your dominant hand finds its way to my waist. I giggle as you pull me into the sea of pink cotton.  

“And to what do I owe this pleasure?” you enquire as my lips pass down your neck and over your shoulder.

“Phil Collins” I reply without missing a beat.

“Seriously? What decade are we in?” you spout back in that voice you use when you think you’re being clever.

Now sitting up, I am teetering between amusement and irritation. “what does it feel like smartass?”

“Well darlin’ for me it feels like time has stopped and I couldn’t be more content with where I am.“

With that you know you’re being clever and that you have broken through the wall I was quickly constructing.

“Fuck you”


“Please would you”

I smile to acknowledge the victory of your Hail Mary and laugh to myself about just how true Mr. Collins words are. You will be the only one who really knew me.  

mj