Friday Morning.

Finally waking up, I rolled myself on to the edge of the bed, sitting up. He sat down next to me, putting on his socks. As I reached for my pile of clothes, I saw the shirt he had been wearing when I came in. I hadn't remembered him taking it off, although I do remember the soft skin of his chest and the exterior light coolness of it and warmth underneath.
It wasn't supposed to happen, but it was nothing I was going to keep preventing myself from. Its not that it was immoral or wrong, it was that my strong head lead me to a way of solidarity. The story seems so common, and therefore I feel it is has no worth than the people that occupy it.
He's obnoxiously tall, and I'm obnoxiously loud, but he fits me when I sleep and silences me with his kissing. It works for whatever it is right now. I feel compelled to sit on his bed while he works, finally approaching all the reading I've been yearning for. I've had this awkward image in my head of us for a while now, sitting straight up but close in his apartment. My bare feet are up on the cushion with a 40 in between them, and he has some mixed drink. It always makes me laugh how he slips into conversations that he has liquor. I'm much more a beer girl, liquor usually starts off disastrous nights. But if he supplys it, I'll probably be there to finish it.
I have a weird trust in him, and I have no idea where it comes from. We have been just talking for a long time, and this past Friday morning, proved me wrong. I really thought it could never work out, but being in real person, just changes everything.