core

There is no moment, no instant of slight pause, like in the movies. There is no impetus. There is no catalyst to point to as an origin. It is fluid.

It is easy. It grows without attention, without effort. It just is. Then it washes over me. Without an idea of where or when it started or where it will lead, I can’t be without her.

The awareness has little effect on its growth. There’s surprise but it’s not startling. It’s welcome, like waking up on a cold couch being carefully covered by a blanket.

With every smile, giggle, gift, hug or kiss it grows slightly. It grows in increments too small to notice but soon the shear size is impossible to ignore. Still, it grows.

It’s different than the others. The others came with a sense of foreboding. They grew in dramatic stages, always constrained against the next invisible barrier. There was uncertainty, insecurity and apprehension at each phase. They were finite.

She gets up and checks something on the computer. Her eyes are fixed on the screen. The screen casts light across her cheeks. She brings her leg up onto the chair. Her black pants hug her curves and her t-shirt hangs loose. A stunning contrast.

She stands and walks to the bed. She hops onto it, kneeling at the edge, straddling my shins. “What do you want to do except lay here doing nothing?” she asks.

Nothing? I want to ignore everything for just a bit longer, watching mundane television, feeling your head on my chest and your hair against my neck. I could lay here until the dull thumping of my chest stops. Dunno, anything you want to do?

She sighs through a half-irritated smile. “It’s annoying when you answer a question with a question.”

Even her exasperation is cute. Well, I don’t really have anything I’d like to do; it’s too late for the movies.

She crawls toward me, shifts to one side and lays her cheek on my chest. Her breath blows across me. She throws her arm across my stomach and one of her legs over one of mine. I turn back to the television.

Later, we get up for a snack. It’s already after nine. We ready and change for bed. She stops the fan from panning from side to side, halting it directed at me. She snaps the light off and climbs under the sheet.

I move to kiss her. She wraps her arms around me, hugging slightly. I pull away and roll to my side, gathering pillows. She turns to face the television and I ease next to her, wrapping my arm around her and a leg around one of hers.

Still, it grows. My priorities adjust because of it. My goals shift and change because of it; new goals manifest themselves because of it. My perspective shifts because of it. I’m happy because of it.