Page 73 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B
all noise falling away.
I step into the depths of his eyes
and get lost in the navy.
His eyes still hold that two-doors-flung-wide-open look, still waiting, still wanting me to come home to it, some fool part of him still thinking I belong there.
His thumb glides up the seam of my palm.
One stroke, so slow—
a touch that’s saying shit he won’t.
God. Why you doin’ this to us, angel?
As if in some other timeline,
we’re naked, unafraid, and whole,
in some warm bed on some better night,
and it’s kind of perfect.
Then his middle drags down the center of my hand before all five fingertips rake back up—tracing,
pressing poetry into my skin.
My palm lifts, sliding heavy across his,
warmth swelling in the center,
an ache that spreads wide
and sinks into the wrist.
He feels it too.
A shiver breaks inside him.
He drops his eyes, turns his head fast,
pretending to admire Midtown,
his free hand sweeping over his mouth
as if that’s going to stop the feeling.
When he looks over at me again,
his thumb hooks under his chin, like—
fuck it, no point in trying to hide it.
So he continues,
his fingers slide between each of mine,
grazing the edges,
