I don’t know what music he likes or whether or not he drinks coffee. I don’t know what he thought the first time he saw me. I don’t know his middle name or his birthday or what town he grew up in. I don’t know his routines or his choice of poison. I don’t know any of the little tidbits that come from small talk because we don’t bother. That isn’t how we’ve come to know one another.

What I know is that he’s got a temper, and it gets him in trouble but it kind of turns me on, too. I know about the adventures he’s not allowed to take and the fights that they lead to. I can tell with just a look when he’s in too far over his head, and I could draw a map of him with words that should have gone unsaid. I know of moments when he sees me and forgets he should have thought of her. And I know that he’s off the market, but not unwilling to test the waters.

Glances and grins and stories to share, and I try to be careful, but it can be hard to care. I need somebody and he needs an out, and I’ve got a bottle of Jack and a big empty house. The thought’s always there, at the front of my mind. It’s wrong, it’s wrong, but God, what if it’s right? It’s so goddamn hard to look away from a spark like this, to douse a fire and go back to the darkness. If he wants it and I want it, I’ve got but one suggestion. Let’s fan the flames – I want to learn all the little things without asking the questions.


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