He is my last thought every night before I go to sleep. There’s nothing peculiar about that – except that he’s already sleeping next to me. I used to savor the very last moments of my day, because it was the only time I allowed myself to indulge in fantasies of the mystery man who would make me happy. But now that man has a face and name, and I need only to stretch my arms out to touch him.
I get up before I actually need to so that I can make him coffee. I know it makes his day when he doesn’t have to fill the water and measure the grounds, so I throw on one of his dress shirts and run downstairs to brew the coffee, while he turns on the shower for us. It’s something I’ve never done before, but it makes me happy to know he’s satisfied.
I put my makeup on while he dresses for work, and we talk about the rest of our day. He kisses my half painted mouth and tells me to have a good day at work before he leaves. More often than not, he’s forgotten something in the bedroom – his cell phone, business cards – and has to run in to retrieve it. He seizes this opportunity to steal another kiss. It’s only been a moment since our lips last touched, but already I am hungry for it.
Some days, I resent the fact that work keeps me away from him. My thoughts are cloudy with him from nine to five. I think about him in between phone calls and loan closings, and sometimes right in the middle of a conversation. I relive our morning moments, the small fraction of time between the first sound of the alarm and when we actually get up. I want to write about him, but I can’t. So I talk about him instead. The stories of my life that I tell my co-workers and customers feature him as a main character now.
I listen to Jason Mraz in the car not only because I love the CD, but because it reminds me of him. He’s in every note of the music: I can hear him singing along - Damn, I should be so lucky/ Even only twenty-four hours under your touch you know I need you so much/ Oh, I cannot wait to call you/ To tell you that I’ve landed somewhere. And I listen to his favorite song - Why don't you tell me about the sunsets in Sweden and the laws of Eden and how you were the rock of Gibraltar and how they called you foxy – and feel closer to him somehow.
I’m eager to see him at the end of my day. He calls me when he knows what time his work day will end and says “I’ll see you at home.” Almost every night, my car is in his driveway before his gets there, and I’m there to greet him when he walks through the door.
Sometimes, I wonder if I think about him too much. Because it is possible, I suppose, that I do. And I wonder if I’m in deeper than he is. Until he looks at me with big pupils and soft irises, his smooth hands on my cheeks. Until he smiles at me. He assures me in ways he doesn’t even realize: A trip to Florida to meet aunts and uncles he rarely sees. The mention that, if he hits the $340,000,000.00 Powerball lottery tonight, I may not be able to go back to work because we’ll be on a plane as soon as we see that the last number matches; The fact that his fantasies of great unearned wealth include me. The coupling of my toiletries with his on his bathroom counter. The photo of my eyes set as the background on his new phone. And the way he lets me feel no less than beautiful in his presence.
He is everything I want.