Night

concrete jungles

I love you. I've loved you all along.

That was it, free of dramatics it was just the simple truth. The thought didn't even linger when we arrived at our destination, washed away by the nerves of explaining ourselves and then later, the introduction to the kids. It was a comfortable, simple given, meant for him and him only to know. It was only when the formalities were gone and we settled into quiet again that it floated back up, and time wears on, a humming silence in which it's found my thoughts again.

Now, hours later, he's being treated to several minutes of solid quiet as I keep my mouth stubbornly shut, not sure what I'll say if I open it. The quiet isn't good because now I'm saturating in that memory, blocking out less appealing thoughts in favor of letting him take over my mind.

He looks totally content if not a bit absent, sitting off to the side with me while our friends are huddled closely around the table, actually writing on scraps of magazine paper trying to construct any small sort of pathetic plan. The sofa is just long enough that Phil and I aren't pressed together, but it's hardly an accident that our elbows and knees end up brushing occasionally all the same.

It's no secret that we need to come up with some course of action for how to move forward soon. Pressure is piling on all of us to come up with something, because PJ and Chris are in more danger every day, and yet we haven't been presented with any real solution. I'd meant to be part of the discussion but just the idea of trying to devise a fruitless plan makes my still somewhat foggy head hurt. So here I am instead.

I look at his hands, one on the armrest of the sofa and one just lying palm down at his side, trying not to succumb to frustration. My fingers twitch as I consider the middle school move, imagining I could just shift a little bit to the left with my hand out and just accidentally let them thread together with his. It's sorely tempting, imaging the way my anxious heartbeat would calm. Except I could never pull that off, it's not exactly like me to offer anything to him unless he's upset or if I'm drunk, apparently. Never have I been so angry with my own existence.

I begin tapping my fingers restlessly, fingertips thudding on the fabric of my jeans as I try to reason with myself. It's hotter than usual today and I just can't concentrate, my pre-apocalypse tendency towards procrastination trying to pretend there is no problem, that nobody's lives are on the line and I can just tuck it all away for the time being.

As for Phil, I would blame the fact that I can't say it face to face with him on the issue that we've been quiet so long that I'd literally be blurting it randomly, but I know that's just an excuse. I'd had plenty of time before.

"Tapping." Phil says suddenly, and I give him a questioning look as he gazes at me from his side of the sofa, which prompts him to follow up, probably realizing a one word statement doesn't give me much to go off of.

"You're tapping again." He gestures to my fingers which I still self-consciously, and he indicates them with a spread of his hands. "That means you're thinking about something and it's driving you crazy. What are you thinking about?"

What I'm thinking about is probably not something he'd be able to understand exactly. I'd like to come up with something clever or sarcastic to come back at him with, something mildly interesting, but my mind feels fuzzy and stupid, too-warm and slow from the goddamn hangover I'm trying to pretend doesn't exist.

I can't help but give him a small smile as his bright eyes meet mine, simply not wanting him to worry and taken aback a bit at how pretty he looks. I can guarantee I look like a wreck, if Felix's expression upon seeing me this afternoon when we made it bck home is anything to go off of. I see him brighten visibly at the expression, then I panic, redirecting my focus onto my hands.