Tag We are lying in my bed on a Wednesday afternoon. Itâs early October, so the window can still be left open without it getting frigid in the room. Sunlight is streaming in and I can hear the wind whispering in the trees outside. My hair is falling onto my face and she brushes it aside, kissing my cheek. I notice the way her eyes dance when she looks at me. Sheâs always got a mischievous look, like she has a plan no matter the situation. We play this game of tag- one of us leans in a little bit, just long enough to count to three, and then pulls back. Tag, youâre it! Itâs so quiet at this moment that I think if I rustle the sheets even slightly itâll be as if Iâve broken fine china. Iâve never been great with silence- it usually signifies anger, disappointment, or resentment. Silence is different with her. When she falls quiet, I can hear her heartbeat and I allow myself to hope that my presence is speeding it up slightly. The quiet allows my mind to wander away from the room and into a warm pool swimming with my thoughts of her. I realize just how nervous she makes me, how she makes my heart flutter and my lips curve into an involuntary smile. I think that maybe we should stop the game, that perhaps I should wave a white flag and surrender. She breathes in a heavy sigh, and Iâm pulled back to that bed on that Wednesday afternoon. The moment I look back at her, her eyes turn away from mine and she becomes fixated on the ceiling. Thereâs nothing interesting about stucco- maybe sheâs just nervous. Suddenly though, she leans in and bridges that four-inch gap between our lips and she doesnât seem nervous at all. I suppose this means she lost our game of tag. Sun Davis â24
30
