beep. b-beep. beeeeep.
I sighed, rolled over, and turned my first alarm off.
Dammit, I was up way too late last night. So much for my resolution to wake up early. I rolled back over and draped my hand over his bare chest.
“Why. Is your alarm on?” He groaned, but kissed my shoulder.
“So that I stop being lazy…like this,” I said and gave in as he pulled me closer.
7:30AM. 8:00AM. 8:30AM…
The morning was nearly over by the time I reluctantly removed myself from the warmth and comfort of my bed and his embrace. I blindly stumbled out into the living room, my eyes still adjusting to the light as I made myself a pot of coffee.
One week. I thought to myself. One week…
Have things ever happened so fast that you couldn’t wrap your mind around it? You can’t quite catch up? That’s how the last week has felt, how I’ve felt since we met. But the thing is…it feels…natural. It’s too fast for me. Way too fast. Like a wild roller coaster ride your friend tricked you into trying. But you love it. You don’t want it to stop. Not yet.
Not ever?
I often think my gut knows more than my brain. I trust my gut, my heart, and first impressions. I’m not sure what exactly that impression is that he’s made on me, but he’s intrigued me enough to want more. To want to actually know him.
I very seldom refer to guys I’ve dated by their real names. It’s nothing personal (well, in some cases, it is), it’s just that I’m terrible with names…and using dating apps…it’s just hard to keep it all straight. Besides, these guys seldom stick around – either I get bored or they do – so why should I be bothered to keep track?
Not this one.
This one didn’t get a nickname. He’s not Sk8r Boi, or Networking Guy, Future Yogi, or Hufflepuff. His number is saved in my phone as his real name, to the surprise of both my closest friends…and myself.
Not my type?
He’s literally my opposite, in nearly every way. He stays up late and sleeps til noon, while I prefer to get up early and go to bed before the sun is up. He scrolls through a Facebook feed of people he hardly knows, reading “articles” he knows aren’t even true; whereas I’m adamant about keeping my news feed clean, covering only those I care about. In fact, for someone whose career has been built on social media, I’m hardly even on Facebook. He’s distracted. I’m focused. His room is a mess but mine is clean. I’m picky with the food I consume.
He eats sour candies like a child.
He is a child. But he’s not, he’s mature in a way that suggests his childlike behavior could be some sort of coping mechanism. He takes his job seriously but he knows how to have a good time. And does he! He makes me laugh even though I roll my eyes while I do…because he’s just that ridiculous. He’s refreshingly open and shockingly self-aware. He’s vibrant. Passionate about life. And not out of naïveté.
He makes me feel like Alice in Wonderland, in the best way.
He makes my rigid, type A personality feel at ease. Comfortable. And as cliché as it is, I keep forgetting that we’ve only just met.
It’s his eyes. The texture of his hair. His soft cheeks beneath my palms and his hands on my waist. The way we seem to inhale one another when we kiss. It’s his crooked, sort of cocky smile. His stomach that he hates. How when we touch, it’s not electric…it’s magnetic. It’s because I actually sleep in his arms all night. His rugged warmth. The way a single glance from him makes me feel suddenly at ease, and how he makes me forget my lists and helps me to surrender to the moment. Whenever it may be.
Slow down. I reminded myself as I sipped my coffee and opened my planner. I took a moment to stare off towards my bedroom, thinking about that moment of panic I had last night…I wasn’t even sure what he said…but it triggered something that terrified me. Relationship PTSD, I call it.
I’m recovering, slowly, I think. At any rate, he’s earning my trust. There’s chemistry at least, that’s for sure. But for Heaven’s sake, Marie, slow down. Calm. Down. Only time will tell.
Gardez votre coeur.
Several hours and half a pot of coffee later, Sleeping Beauty groggily emerged from my bedroom and meandered over to the table where I sat, working. He kissed my cheek and murmured:
“I can’t believe you got me to go to a bridal fashion show.”
I smiled my thankful, kind, but slightly evil smile in response and kissed him.
“Well played,” I said as I got up and headed to the kitchen. “What do you want for lunch?”
Pensez.
…Because when you can get a boy you barely know to go to not just the fashion show but several Bridal Couture Week events with you…well, you should at least bother to learn his name. And maybe even use it.
Marie R. Carlson 