My hands are pressed gently into his palms.
His fingers are running over the gaps between my knuckles
and are folding down and along each crease like
a little boy bent over a desk in the back of the classroom,
concentrating on making a paper airplane out of yesterday’s homework.
I half-expect someone to tap my shoulder and say, “Are you paying attention?”
No, not really.
I am focused on the way his lips are moving
a fraction of a second out of time with the faint country song we hear playing from outside.
I begin to sing too.
Half way into the second verse, his eyes meet mine again.
He takes my aircraft hands and leads me to the middle of the living room.
The overhead fan gazes at us. I feel the paper airplanes inside of my chest swirl.
We are swaying. My arms are draped over his tired shoulders and his
are encircling my lower back. I see that his shoelace is untied.
I am leaning my weight against his chest, balancing on my tiptoes.
I do not tell him I can feel his heart beating. I look up at him again.
He is already staring. I notice a subtle pink in his cheeks.
I do not realize until now that my lips are only inches from his,
the gap between them begging to be closed.
So we close it.
I fold into him like creased paper waiting to be flown.
Someone opens the door.
She says, “The song stopped playing. Are you even paying attention?”
I speak up and say, “No, not really.”