On dating.

Curly brown hair tops off the adorable sight that some would call a face. Face doesn’t do it justice. Face cannot explain what I know. There it is; that beautifully complicated sight coming closer and closer. In his strong arms, I let out a deep breath. His hugs are game-changing.

Turning over in bed, I am pleasantly surprised my pajamas appear to be on right; oversized baseball tee-shirt on top and my favorite red boxers on bottom. My water bottle is mysteriously empty, but perhaps that explains the five trips I made to the bathroom last night. I check my texts and my stomach falls to the floor when I see what I had sent, hopefully against my better judgment, but I doubt it put up much of a fight when bad judgment was coursing through my veins with the help of a few new friends. Some friends, they convinced me to text him, “I’m dr3unk.” Drunk is not spelled with a 3. Drunk is not something I had ever been before. Drunk is something he knew I was because I wish I was with him. Drunk happened again the next weekend.

Our flannel shirts seemed as one that night. We spent that cool October night in a barn under the stars, stomping, clapping, spinning and laughing to a fiddle band comprised of old men wearing socks with their Tevas and strange leather vests. Together, we were a tornado; too caught up in each others’ gaze to notice the stares of others as we danced off rhythm and crashed into other couples. “Hold my hand like you mean it,” he whispered in my ear as our fingers interlocked. We had started down a path, neither one knowing where it would lead.

A gas mask. He forced my man to smoke weed in a gas mask. I could kill him with my shaking hands right now if I didn’t doubt that my heels would carry me across the room in one piece.

I lay in my bed, thermometer hanging out of my mouth, clothes completely sweat through and face as red as the glow of the keys of his laptop. I didn’t complain because it was in this state that he entered with a shopping bag filled with juice, pudding, candy, and all other best types of medicine and said, “morning sunshine.” It was about 8pm and I did not look like sunshine. Wiping orange juice from my chin, meeting my humiliated gaze, cleaning my pit of a room, spending time with my 101 degree self, he was earning his sainthood.

Storming out. Passive texts. Aggressive texts. Excessive miscommunications. He yelled at me from the staircase, calling me lame and boring. That’s a time I would like to forget, but damn he was wearing my favorite shirt of his.

One more minute and I would have brought him back. If I had to chase him down my hallway, call him or text him, I would have caved. Like a sand castle built by a two-year old, I would have caved.

Two people going to different places can’t walk together. Or so I thought. But what if after one leaves, the other gets so lost and confused that they just wish they were walking with the other again, with their arm around you. Isn’t that all that matters anyways?

Follow your head. Follow your heart. I have no idea which is right.

We were eating pudding again. We were joking about the same things again. We were talking about our days again. We were saying what we meant for the first time. We were embracing a second chance as he hugged me, picked me up and spun me around.