He sits in my bed and eats his chicken wings in between telling me lurid, colorful stories about his childhood. I sit and listen and lovingly dab sauce off his chin while wondering is this fascination, obsession or just observation?
I have finally figured out the way in which he reminds me of my father. When I was young, my father would drive me to school and tell me stories about his life. I would sit there, rapt, and later, at night, I would wrap myself up in fantasies of my life being just like that. It must be the same thing with him, listening to a life I’ll never live, yet sitting here in my slice of his life, wondering if I’ll make the final cut.
I’ll probably never find out. I’ll never be able to know what’s truly in his heart, which isn’t because he doesn’t try to tell me all the time, but just because that’s the nature of humanity. All his stories starring someone else sound so right and so true, but as we sit here, together, my sense of reality is slipping into something slightly ethereal. Like this moment is all I want out of life, but it is beyond my grasp, slithering out of my heart and into my head where it will sit for the rest of my life like the ghost of a love that used to be.
All I want is to always remember what it feels like to wake up in his arms. The temporary bliss of skin and skin contact which always seems to give way to the monotony of every day which stands between me and him like war. Why can’t I have the good times with him forever? Have I not yet earned heaven?