It’ll be a Wednesday.

It’ll be cloudy outside. There will be fog creeping over the ravine and remnants of an early-morning rain still drifting in the air. You’ll ask me to come to your room. I’ll have no idea why. On the way I’ll notice a few people I know and joke with them briefly. I’ll bellow their names a little too loud. They’ll roll their eyes but yell back anyways.

I’ll arrive too early and linger outside for a while, balancing on the curb like a tightrope walker. My head will be full of possible entry lines. I’ll veto them all and just hope something clever comes to me. Nothing will.

I’ll pause outside your door for a few seconds. My hand will rest on the handle for a moment before entering. I’ll turn my back to you and close the door behind me meticulously; taking advantage of that time to shape my face into something that I’ll hope is charming. I’ll see your face and immediately start grinning like a fool. You’ll look up and smile back, chuckling to yourself. You’ll be making your bed. The blue sheets will still be wrinkled and bunched, but you’ll stop anyway because no one likes making their bed and you’ll get impatient. I’ll wonder why you even bothered to start making it in the first place.

We’ll sit down on your bed. You’ll prop yourself up on a pile of pillows and I’ll lean against the wall. I’ll feel comfortable but extremely aware of how much my smile is spreading to my eyes.

There will be a pause in the conversation. I’ll tap my thumbs together. You’ll glance down and I’ll gaze at you for a bit too long. When you direct your eyes back up you’ll catch me gazing. I’ll be okay with it.

I’ll feel the mood in the room change as you look up with a serious expression on your face. I won’t know what that face means. I’ll be concerned. You’ll lock your eyes with mine and tell me that you broke up with her. I’ll feel excited and I’ll hate myself for it. But my face will fall for you in sympathy and I’ll ask what happened. You’ll rub your hands together in your lap and stare at them intently. You’ll pick at a scab on your palm. I’ll find it adorable but I won’t know why. You’ll quietly admit that there’s someone else. You’ll appear shyer than I’ll have ever seen. I’ll shoot down unrealistic hopes inside my head before asking who is it. You’ll pause for a long moment.

You’ll look up. I’ll feel my heart putting strain on the seams of my chest. You’ll push your body up off the mound of pillows and crawl over next to me. My heart will pound harder. You’ll put your face close to mine. I’ll wonder why my chest hasn’t burst yet. We’ll sit together for a moment. I’ll count the light freckles bordering your nose. Five on one side. Seven on the other. The intensity of your gaze will make my vision go fuzzy.

You’ll whisper that it’s me. You’ll murmur that you’ve fallen for me. I won’t believe you. You’ll try again to convince me.

When you kiss me, everything will stop. I’ll feel my body melt into yours. The tips of your fingers will slide across my cheek and your other hand will pull my waist closer. My body will shake and I won’t be able to stop it. My lips will act effortlessly but my hands will forget what to do. You’ll stroke my jaw line. The calluses on your fingers will comfort me. I’ll be surprised at how quickly I give myself to you.

When it ends, my lips will still tingle. Our noses will still touch and we’ll sit there for a few minutes. Silent except for soft panting. It won’t have lasted long but we’ll still be out of breath. We’ll stay there together. I won’t know for how long.

Beside me, blue sheets will be crumpled inside passionate fists.

It’ll be a Wednesday. But I’ll forget.


The featured image, ‘Small Talk’, was used with the permission of artist Pascal Campion.

Dorcy Jaffray

I am a sophomore at Lewis & Clark College in Portland, Oregon. I was born and raised in a suburb outside of Minneapolis, Minnesota. Writing has been a large part of my life since I was in elementary school, making up short, rhyming poems about butterflies and sports. Poetry is my preference because I love lyrical verse, whether it be reading it or creating it myself. My dream is, as it always will be, to become a writer.

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