Summer
He's twenty-four and he looks like he's around sixteen, all skinny bones and gangly legs and pale pale skin like he's been raised up in a cave instead of California sun.
The only way you can tell he's still not in high school is the way he speaks, that soft voice, those restrained words, the faint panting whispers when he slides in and out slow and sweet. He whispers words of poetry, quotes from old songs and new books, curled up in bed with his lips against your ears.
You walk down the street together and he's stopping in every other store, laughing and grinning at each shopkeeper and engaging in small talk. You stand near the door and watch him, a half-smile on your face mirroring his grin.
He buys french bread and cream cheese with chives and feeds you tiny sandwiches while you sit on the backyard lawn and watch the airplanes fly over. He finds pale pink lillies and traces them over your body as you giggle and squirm.
He loves you. And in the summertime blush of softness and light, you think you almost love him too.
Written for Soul Kitchen.