Meet Me In The Hallway

Nights in White Satin

There were a lot of long nights. In the beginning they were fillled with me climbing onto my self created rack and stretching my feelings long and taut. I felt ridiculous. My stomach fluttered whenever I saw him, and those days when we were reunited after stretches away from each other were particularly bad. I was, to quote the great Britney, not a girl, but not yet a woman, but my pubescent response to him was stupidly overwhelming. I was not a fan girl. I spent a tremendous amount of time with a bunch of dudes who had fan girls. They were treated like something apart, something more than human. In my real experience, they were more human than human, they sweat and farted and bled freely and often. It pissed me off that Harry was able to reduce me to the fluttering mess he was.y only hope was that he was unaware. I could not imagine he knew what he did to me, or his flirty little touches and open self disclosures would be the cruelest lead. If so, he was a mean master and I was pulled along on his leash.

I told myself, in those long early days, that he didn't mean any harm. From what I came to  know of him, what I still believe I know of him, is that the last thing that Harry wishes to give out is harm. Even when he was a randy man child coming to grips with the spotlight and all of its privileges and pitfalls, I don't think he ever intended to hurt anyone. Least of all me. He liked me always, as a person and as a friend at least. I'm not exactly sure looking back when it happened. When it became more for me, when it became more. I knew better than to like a guy who was my friend. It didn't work out. But, by the time we had rejoined the tour and I'd been welcomed back into Harry's arms and bed, I had feelings for him. Those bastards kept cropping up, like weeds in a well tended garden. I took the time and spent hours tending to it, every night I would talk myself down. Phrases like- he could have anyone, you are lucky he cares for you like a friend, he always takes you in-don't ruin it, he's so much fun-don't miss out on that because of stupid tummy swirls, you know how this ends-don't do this again-were my lullabies.

Every morning I'd wake up with him tangled around me. Spider arms wrapped around my neck, or shoulders or torso, and I'd be a willing fly in the web. We'd laze about, and have talks in the half light or bright shine, depending on our jet lag and then eat together. We were sharing at least two meals together most days, no one seemed to notice, but all that broken bread meant we couldn't help but be making something together.

He flirted to, he was a horrible flirt, truly. Harry's hands found my body in almost every interaction that we had. Unknowingly while he slept, unconsciously while we played video games or ate, and purposefully when he hugged me hello or goodbye, dropping candied kisses on my cheeks as well. My feelings were confused, or I liked to pretend they were, and I didn't have the huztpah to ask him about his own. I feared his rejection more than the pain I was putting myself through. I would have missed him terribly had he pushed me into the hallway after I revealed myself. I may have been in his bed then physically, but emotionally I was standing in a long chamber between countless doors waiting for him to open one.

There had been times when he slipped, Freud level oppsies that kept me on his hook. I was his own big mouthed bass, gape open and waiting. Casual I love you's were shared-"I love the way you laugh, kick my ass, make fun of Niall, talk, smell."

I wanted him to love the way I tasted.

The near miss kisses we shared may have been a teasing taste had we ever collided. Those I thought of too, lying in white fluff, smelling the tang of his sweat and gradual pleasant sour of his breath. The scenarios I came up with started to ramp up after our wish fulfilling movie night. Before watching Wesley and Co. Defeat evil princes, I had daydreamed about kissing Harry. Sitting on my bed far far away, I had thought about what he would move like. Would I taste him or just the spearmint of the gum he jawed constantly? Would the mint cool my mouth giving me a bracing inhale that one time we went to the snow in New Zealand, freezing throat of like menthol with the fiery other being our lips meeting. Would the kiss be a peck followed by an ackward sputter as it flared out? Or, would mutual attraction be enough oxygen to cause a flare? Would the tinder be rich enough that we lit up and were consumed? Would it lead to more, be an amuse bouche, a taste of things to come?