Hah, come on prove me wrongLast night Ben put his t-shirt on me to keep me warm but that's always foreplay for him, me in one of his giant tees, bare legs, neck of the shirt falling off one shoulder. He pushed me gently back down and climbed over me, and just as we got rolling he grabbed the front of the shirt, twisting it up into one hand until I lifted right off the bed and then he sat back and did things the easy way, pulling me into him. When things got too crazy, he pulled me upright, ripped the shirt off me and finished me off in his lap, joining me for a little serendipitous Ben-dark, which is the only kind I like, truth be told.
Tell me I'm not crazy
Or maybe just a little bit
Maybe just a little bit crazy
But mostly prove me wrong
That's a weird thing I realized a long time ago. I'm terribly afraid of the dark. But not with Ben. With Ben it's his default. Everything looks better. Everything makes sense. It's so normal. With everyone else, Lochlan included, I hold my breath until I can turn the lights off and still see. Lochlan had to resort to forcing me to focus on the tiny coloured lights of the fair and fireworks and flames until I could find a way not to back myself into a corner and cry until sunrise. I don't even want to say definitively that he succeeded, the jury is still out on this, depending on the day.
Ben puts his shirt back on me, snuggling me back down into his arms, whispering words I can't even make out against the top of my head. I can use his heartbeat to fall back asleep and the soreness in my legs to warrant more rest, and we are out.
In the morning he gets up early, kisses my cheek so gently I want to cry and showers and leaves, heading to a meeting and then returning only to disappear into his actual world, as this one is a dream in name only.
At least that's how it usually goes.
This morning he went to a meeting and then brought home egg mcmuffins and hash browns and coffee, and we had breakfast in bed, me a walking t-shirt with legs, him a huge handsome fully-dressed-in-bed kind of guy. We stretched our legs out straight from sitting up against the headboard and if I point my toes my legs only go to the bottoms of his knees if you draw a line straight across the bed.
His eyebrows raise but he says nothing, enjoying sipping his coffee and giving up his favorite t-shirts.
I think I'll take the day off.
Really?
If the rest is as good as the past few hours then I'd be a fool not to. What are your plans?
Spring cleaning, taxes, painting.
So I should or are you too busy?
You definitely should. Everything else can wait.
Or I can help you and we'll get it done twice as fast.
Okay, do you want to paint pictures for the book or do taxes?
I can clean.
Do the windows?
On it. But he isn't. He's on me again, because like I said, he loves me in his shirts.
How is this doing windows?
Window to your soul or something, he says, pushing the hem of the shirt up to my neck, starting all over again.
Good enough for me.