The Thrill Of It

So, you'll wake up. Early. Too early. And you'll groan and whine and pull the pillow over your head, but finally you'll get up -- and she'll still be sleeping, next to you.

You'll tiptoe out -- shower, get dressed, because you have class and it's your turn to make breakfast and she doesn’t have to be up for another three hours. And you'll be late, anyway, because you'll distract yourself by peeking in at her and smiling at her while she sleeps; brushing a few stray curls of silken hair off of her forehead and pressing your lips in their place.

And you'll wonder what she's dreaming about while you crack the eggs wrong and burn the pancakes. And then the dog -- the dog, how could you forget the dog? -- he'll wake up and start making noise and pretty soon she'll be leaning by the door frame, dressed and ready to walk you to class.

You'll complain about waking up too early and apologize for toasting breakfast. She'll tell you your hair's getting too long and suggest to get it cut, but you'll turn the tables and laugh at the idea of her with shorter hair. You'll get to university too soon than she originally hoped like always, but you'll kiss her forehead and disappear for the day. She'll tell you she'll miss you and takes the dog back home.

And you finish your last class the same time she gets off work, so it's your latest game to beat each other home. Rush hour traffic and busses from opposite directions, cramped and crowded and stinking -- but it’s worth it to see the look on her face when she comes home to find a freshly picked rose that you stole from the neighbor, or when you tackle her, digging fingers into her sides and she'll threaten to quit her job if you ever beat her home again. And she'll hit you, jokingly, unable to stop the giggling because you won't stop tickling her, and she asks if you want to have to live on the streets, and you'll silence her in the only way you know how to - by pressing your lips to her.

And it'll be ordering food on the phone while she dances to songs, or holding her hands while you read through your law books for three straight hours; begging her to serenade you on her guitar and throwing guitar picks at her when she won’t sing along to your acoustic renditions of the only song you know how to play on the guitar, and it's Leaving On A Jetplane.

And you'll collapse into bed, exhausted, still unable to let each other go; lips on lips and hands in hair, legs intertwined and you don’t even need to say I love you, any more, because it’s obvious... but you do it anyway.

For the thrill; for the way those words jump start hearts and catapult stomachs into mouths; suck the air from your lungs and push the dizziness in through your eyes, let it seep into your brain and mess with your body ‘til you tingle all over in sheer joy. This is what love is; it’s staying up all night to watch her sleep and not being able to do so yourself without her pressed tight into your embrace. It’s wondering where your shirt went, and remembering that she had a jacket that you received from a distant relative you haven't seen in five years on today and knowing you'll still smell like her next time you wear it -- but Jesus, who cares? Because it’s her, and you need her, want her, adore her - love her with everything you have and more.

And your eyes will finally drift shut, and you can still smell her; breathe her into you because you couldn’t hold her any closer if you tried...

And then you'll roll over.

You'll roll over, and know the bed won't be empty tomorrow morning. And the mornings after.