Baby G

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And he spoke. He spoke brief, as though he was hiding something—desperate to keep it hidden— at the beginning I understood. He had a lifestyle that I couldn’t relate to; one that was filled with weathery storms that he himself had to rebuild whenever it was destroyed. I gave him space every time this occurred. Relentlessly it was hard for me too, seeing someone I cared for encountering issues that my mind simple could not grasp.

Late night calls, the touch of his feathery hair, and that unknowingly smell—all things that contributed to my happiness—were what kept me together. We would have discussions of our futures, both having dreams of becoming successful. He would draw a sea of pictures in my head of his penthouse over looking the city—which I sized him, down to a little studio apartment, something more him—while walking on that dark, perfectly sprayed foggy night, as he had his arm around me, he ran his hands across the midst, to square out his vision. His two however big Mac computers together as one to allow him to better edit and his gracious amount of boat shoes that lined up that glass door. Now knowing this would be the last of the spontaneous talks of ours.

From then on the watch became an essential component of the relationship. His and soon later mine. Where ever we went he wore it. The first time I ever knew he wore a watch was that night. It didn’t hit me until later, that it was a G-SHOCK, the very same one I wanted for Christmas. I was pretty disappointed when I saw him with one, but for Christmas I received my very own. A purple with pink writing BABY G. I was hoping he would never notice it but eventually he did. And with astonishment he let out a husky comment as I quickly tried covering it. As the taunting became easier to handle I realized it was kind of cute how we matched. Actually it was pretty dumbfounding how we had that in common; both having an attraction to the watch.

BABY G became an important part of my daily routine. It was an area I looked at for the time, where I looked to when I wanted to know how late I really was, the first thing I checked in the morning, the place I went to when I wanted to know how many minutes, seconds, and hours, I had until an appointment, the thing that told me exactly how many minutes, seconds, hours, days, and weeks I had wasted on him. And soon the days of not communicating dragged on like a long hour of math taught by a complete monotone professor. At that moment I contemplated on what he could be thinking? Did he still care? Would he talk to me because he wanted to or because there was no one else? Did he even have a slight thought of what this way doing to me? Did he know that I was the only one trying? And did he ever look at his watch the way I looked at mine?





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