I don’t even know where to begin.

The music plays softly in the background of my room, without disturbing. It doesn’t even stir the thick air. It’s one of those warm muggy summer nights. I almost feel like I’m begging for sex with my shirt almost entirely unbuttoned. Just one button hangs by a few threads, clasping my shirt together. You’d think I’d be embarrassed, but by now I’ve given that up. Besides, it’s not like my housemates won’t see me naked at some point in time. And like AJ hasn’t already seen me naked… many, many times.

I don’t know what the name of this song is. I stole the CD from my brother. He hasn’t noticed yet. Lucky me. But it’s that perfect summer cruising song. As I hear the cars go by, I can imagine them all being those perfect, brand new, rich boy convertibles, the classic blond riding in the passenger seat, her perfect body riding the curves of the road, just like the driver has ridden her every curve.

But none of that matters. Gemstones falling unto the Mancala board require my immediate attention. AJ looks up expectantly. I’m teaching him how to play. He’s got that devilish look, the one that softly says “I’m going to take you down… First at Mancala, and then into the depths of ecstasy.” He can never articulate with words what he dreams of doing with me, but his hands express his every sentiment when he touches me. I thrive on words, but I’m learning to depend on what isn’t said more and more. And I’m teaching him how to be more fluid with his speech. Relationships are a give and take thing you know. And some random website says that I’m a 57. Perfect number. Don’t take too much, don’t give too little. For whatever that’s worth.

But it’s my move. I don’t deliberate nearly as long as he does. I don’t care if I win or lose this Mancala game. The matter of importance is that we aren’t fighting. We aren’t having sex. We aren’t sleeping. We aren’t ignoring each other. We’re co-existing on that inconsequential level that most couples spend too much or too little time in. We’re having that cliché conversation about nothing that centers on everything.

Leaves outside on the tree dance in the rhythm of the piano playing. It almost seems as though the leaves are playing the music, inspiring it, rather then responding to it. But the games are over, the tie decided. I don’t remember who won. We played 4 games. We enjoyed each other. That’s all that matters.

Someone enters my house, and leaves just the same. It’s as though they don’t want to disturb the moment. The aura that we press outward makes others as uncomfortable as it makes it comfortable. The board is put aside now, neatly packed back into its tin box. We’re lying side by side on the floor, nose to nose. I can’t focus on his eyes through the glasses, but before I can speak, they are cast aside in exchange for a closer view. I’m just noticing how pixilated his eyes look from so short a distance when his lips begin to part his lips and he draws a breath.

“I love you.”

I can’t help but think Damn you man… I’m trying to be creative and you spout this line that has been said billions of times already today. Can’t you be a little more original? But there is no original way to say it. It’s been expressed in almost every way possible.

That’s not what matters. It’s his love that matters. Not love, but his love. His love for me. And I need to realize that.

I need to realize a lot of things. But… most importantly, I need to realize that he’s here. Encouraging me to write. Helping me with my broken toe. Loving me as well as he knows how. Maybe he has a lot to learn. Maybe I do too.

I don’t know where to begin…

Maybe he does. Perhaps I’ll ask…