A text message roused me from a rather deep slumber. I wanted to scream in dire frustration but I know it would cost me my bed and space in this house. I had to get up since the sun’s noon-day glare that’s barely filtered by white see-through curtain on my window shocked the sleep from my eyes. I had to squint to see where I placed my phone.
So I got up and with one hand, rubbed my eyes, and fondled my phone with the other. It was from him – Mike (not his real name). It was a simple message, just a morning greeting actually. He must’ve slept as late as I did, and deducing from his message, he woke just minutes before I did, too. Hmmm…
You see, I’m pretty much into these kinds of things - the incidental things. And these thoughts make me break out in goose bumps, make me ask a lot of questions and perhaps-es: What would it be like, the two of us together? How would he see me and me him? Would he like me?
And before I caught myself slipping into fits of depression and insecurity, I went to the bathroom for my morning ritual.
During the course of the day, Mike and I made small talk through our phones, asking mundane questions and putting trivial doubts out in the open: I’m reading something, I say, The Memoirs of a Geisha. Do you read often? I bought a nice shirt last week; it matches my elephant pants. It’s the current rage, don’t you agree? (This was created back in 2000)
It’s quite silly, I know, but what else could we talk about? He asked me, though, whether I was bisexual or plainly gay, which I never really entertained before. His question literally startled me; I never knew he’d ask something serious like this one. I didn’t know what I said, but I must’ve told him enough to satiate his doubt. He never asked me about my sexuality, again.
This trivial banter we conducted ourselves to, continued until evening. I lost count on how many text messages I have used up since then. But in that short time, I felt like we were clearing a path before us, determined to have our way smooth and carefree. Like we were going somewhere, somewhere we both know; that’s why, the place, or the destination, never really surfaced in our conversations. My stomach felt funny, like small birds fluttering inside of it, butterflies of brilliant colors hovering above the overgrown chalices of flowers on their proud buds. I was excited, and frightened at the same time. He could be it, I know. Whatever the it is suppose to mean. And he could be someone, someone I’d go home to at the end of each laborious day and I’m still thrilled to be there for him; someone I could tell my worries to, maybe even help me survive them; someone I can sleep with, not just have sex with; someone I can make love to, and who could make love to me as well. He could be someone special.
The little voice inside my head sang as if sensing the tightness of my stomach and tried to hum the quivers away. It’s okay, the little voice said; he’s okay. As I lay myself on my bed that night, thinking over all the things, the wonderful things, that happened I slowly caressed my body over the thick, warm sheets covering my skin, from toes to neck, and I closed my eyes to see him. I only see him with my eyes closed. I’m never good with daydreaming.
He stepped into my room, illuminated by the streaks of light from the moon, those that escaped from the heavy but semi sheer drapes. I saw myself, lying peacefully on the bed, both arms resting on both sides, my head slightly higher than the rest of my body, face cast with the eerie moonlight. He sat at my side, carefully smoothing the sheet over me, and tucking the upper end to the base of my neck, as if afraid I might catch cold. He sensed I’m deeply asleep so he inches his way closer and brushed his lips on my forehead. Good night, he whispered, to me, to the stale and cold air, across the window, over the gates and onto the moon. His voice was surprisingly familiar. His was like someone’s voice that I hear so often, at night, when I’m alone and about to sleep.
Ahhh, his was the little voice that puts me to sleep. Nice Mike; nice little voice.
So I got up and with one hand, rubbed my eyes, and fondled my phone with the other. It was from him – Mike (not his real name). It was a simple message, just a morning greeting actually. He must’ve slept as late as I did, and deducing from his message, he woke just minutes before I did, too. Hmmm…
You see, I’m pretty much into these kinds of things - the incidental things. And these thoughts make me break out in goose bumps, make me ask a lot of questions and perhaps-es: What would it be like, the two of us together? How would he see me and me him? Would he like me?
And before I caught myself slipping into fits of depression and insecurity, I went to the bathroom for my morning ritual.
During the course of the day, Mike and I made small talk through our phones, asking mundane questions and putting trivial doubts out in the open: I’m reading something, I say, The Memoirs of a Geisha. Do you read often? I bought a nice shirt last week; it matches my elephant pants. It’s the current rage, don’t you agree? (This was created back in 2000)
It’s quite silly, I know, but what else could we talk about? He asked me, though, whether I was bisexual or plainly gay, which I never really entertained before. His question literally startled me; I never knew he’d ask something serious like this one. I didn’t know what I said, but I must’ve told him enough to satiate his doubt. He never asked me about my sexuality, again.
This trivial banter we conducted ourselves to, continued until evening. I lost count on how many text messages I have used up since then. But in that short time, I felt like we were clearing a path before us, determined to have our way smooth and carefree. Like we were going somewhere, somewhere we both know; that’s why, the place, or the destination, never really surfaced in our conversations. My stomach felt funny, like small birds fluttering inside of it, butterflies of brilliant colors hovering above the overgrown chalices of flowers on their proud buds. I was excited, and frightened at the same time. He could be it, I know. Whatever the it is suppose to mean. And he could be someone, someone I’d go home to at the end of each laborious day and I’m still thrilled to be there for him; someone I could tell my worries to, maybe even help me survive them; someone I can sleep with, not just have sex with; someone I can make love to, and who could make love to me as well. He could be someone special.
The little voice inside my head sang as if sensing the tightness of my stomach and tried to hum the quivers away. It’s okay, the little voice said; he’s okay. As I lay myself on my bed that night, thinking over all the things, the wonderful things, that happened I slowly caressed my body over the thick, warm sheets covering my skin, from toes to neck, and I closed my eyes to see him. I only see him with my eyes closed. I’m never good with daydreaming.
He stepped into my room, illuminated by the streaks of light from the moon, those that escaped from the heavy but semi sheer drapes. I saw myself, lying peacefully on the bed, both arms resting on both sides, my head slightly higher than the rest of my body, face cast with the eerie moonlight. He sat at my side, carefully smoothing the sheet over me, and tucking the upper end to the base of my neck, as if afraid I might catch cold. He sensed I’m deeply asleep so he inches his way closer and brushed his lips on my forehead. Good night, he whispered, to me, to the stale and cold air, across the window, over the gates and onto the moon. His voice was surprisingly familiar. His was like someone’s voice that I hear so often, at night, when I’m alone and about to sleep.
Ahhh, his was the little voice that puts me to sleep. Nice Mike; nice little voice.
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Reposted from www.peyups.com
Love Stories : Small Voice
Contributed by irvin (Edited by amplifier)
Sunday, September 28, 2003 @ 11:32:54 PM
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