Whole conversations right in the middle of fucking each other. I shit you not.

(I'm never sure if I love it or hate it, truth be told but it's certainly different. Like he is. Okay, well now it makes sense when put that way.)

Come on down to the Mermaid Café and I will
Buy you a bottle of wine
And we'll laugh and toast to nothing and smash our empty glasses down
Let's have a round for these freaks and these soldiers
A round for these friends of mine
Let's have another round for the bright red devil
Who keeps me in this tourist town

I wake up falling or drowning, I'm not sure which as my arms flail through the dark looking for something to hold. They find what they're looking for and I open my eyes but he doesn't.

You got away from me in your sleep, Fidget. I won't let that happen again.

I reach up and stretch out a long red curl, tucking it behind his ear. He frowns, pushing my hand away. What're you doing?

Admiring my prize.

Thought that was my job. Still with eyes closed, he leans forward, kissing my shoulder, rolling his weight onto me.

Here for your admiration. I surrender to him, letting him pin my hands above my head, arching my back to share his heat, coming away with a kiss and a smile as he finally opens his eyes but they're already awake and smiling.

When are we going to talk about it?

Never and keep this perfect day. 

Peanut, it's an albatross.

Everything is. Leave this day, please. 

Tomorrow. 

Maybe something will change and we won't have to.

You sound like you dread this. 

I don't, I just don't want to close doors. You always told me to be damned sure before I closed a door or burned a bridge. 

I burned you every night once.

An illusion. 

Same result. 

Not hardly. 

Have you made any decisions aside from what we talked about? 

No surprises, Loch.

Oh, yeah? That's good. Maybe my hair will stay red a bit longer instead of turning white.

I'm not the cause of your stress. 

Tell me more stories. I have all day. 

Yes! I'll tell you the one about the little girl and the sugar tornado. 

I wish you'd share that stuff instead of stupid moments when I was fifteen and so clever I pissed in the lake and you believed that I could warm it on command. 

Maybe I will. 

Eventually you'll be sharing photographs of my junk, I bet. 

No. I have a classy blog. 

It isn't. It's porn and angst and nothing in between. 

Just like me.

Yeah, just like you.