“A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal.” -Oscar Wilde
My eyes slowly open the next morning, adjusting to the soft light peeking in through the windows. I’m wrapped around The Writer, my hand on his heart and our breathing in sync. I wish to myself that I could lie here forever just like this, before shutting my eyes once more.
A couple hours later, I wake up again and see that it’s past noon. I don’t move for several minutes more but finally convince myself to pull away from him. He pulls me back and squeezes my arm before letting me go. I quietly put my pants and shoes on and walk to my car. After starting the engine, I sit there for a moment, staring off through my sticky contacts and have a gentle revelation. I have feelings for The Writer, and they’re potentially serious.
As I merge onto the highway, I smile, realizing what I have to do. To make this friendship survive I’m going to have to take a plastic bag and wrap it around my feelings–seal off the oxygen supply. I have to suffocate them until, at the very least, they’re not noticeable. The ball’s in his court. Unfortunately, I don’t know the rules to this game.