Important looking sounding seeming people.
You know what turns you off when you see it. Before that, the delicious unknown swirl, the way his hair sticks to his head nonchalantly, like it’s better not to wash now, will make you heady, and you’ll sleep with your stomach elevated, your aesophagus threatening to slide right out of your mouth.
You remember what dating without talking was like – like a movie – and the familiarity of films, which makes you remember sidewalks and stores you’ve never been to, means you hanker for other, simpler men, who haven’t an opinion on Damien Hirst, don’t know who Tracey Emin is.
His fault wasn’t trying, writing, dressing, kissing, wasn’t what he said the first morning or what he’ll say the last. Some renovations you can’t make. The sheer energy in wood-sanding, carpet stapling is a full time job, and your career goals of princess, pop star, don’t leave room for almost men, slight ones, men growing their hair to pretend they’re Jeff Buckley, the sort of extinguishable genius that knowing is like touching a Ouija board. You saw The Exorcist when you were fifteen and have waited for transformation since.
You’ll examine his hair, try to work out where it’s cut, if he’s seen the same ads on TV, been trying Vidal Sassoon, expensive brands with similar contents, and you think you smell him from where you’re sitting and start panicking, try to take deep breaths but since you met your lungs have been ready for accidental inhalation, and you wonder, “When he’s in my mouth will my backup generators kick in, will I remember to blink and breathe?” and you ache for finding out.