Thoughts while wearing her clothes and watching her unload the dishwasher...

• She’s really hot.
• She’s wearing a sports bra and sweatpants that hang too low. They show off her hipbones, and the tattoos that sprawl across her stomach.
• Peach says I should start a lesbian TikTok account of Max doing domestic things for me while looking like a stone cold babe. (Peach is obsessed with the lesbian TikTok-er who bakes bread.)
• Sometimes I think about how our relationship has developed in this weird anti-social bubble... we haven’t had to meet families, go to Christmas parties, weddings, funerals, navigate how long we stay at events or whose people we prioritize. All of our weekends together are just us at home with the dog because of lockdown.
• I wonder what she’s like at a party? I never sit still, always on the move, love to chat and flirt with everyone, see what’s happening. I don’t like feeling like I have to entertain a partner when we go out, I like it when my partners can fly on their own, touching base here and there, recapping at the end of the night. I wonder what she’s like...
• I wonder how she’ll feel watching me flirt. Usually that’s something I navigate at the beginning, see how they react, it’s a huge red flag to me if someone can’t handle it. Flirting is an art. I never pick up strangers, but I still love the game of playful sparring and capturing attention. Flirting in the wild is a thrill. I’ve always dated poly people who like watching me flirt, watching me flex those muscles. I wonder if she can tolerate it, or if her monogamous inclinations are too strong. I wonder if we’d fight about it. I hate that thought.
• I remember suddenly that she’s never slow danced with anyone before. Ever. In her life. It makes me want to cry. Imagine. I want to slow dance with her so badly now. She asked me once what was so special about it, it’s hard to describe but it’s a specific kind of intimacy. Tender. I already have a list of obscure slow songs I want to slow dance to with her. I think about doing it right here in the kitchen, but it’s not the same. Her first time has to be special. It’s at the top of my list of Things To Do If The World Opens Again.
• She doesn’t sing or dance. Ever. Doesn’t make a joyful noise or bust a move. I can’t help but do both, all the time. They come from deep inside of me and escape my lips and hips, I do them effortlessly, without thinking. I never thought I could love someone who didn’t sing or dance. But I do love her. It’s as simple as that. And she loves my songs and silly moves. And there’s plenty of music in the house regardless.
• I listen to the same old soul records her father raised her on. We joke that the two things he and I will have in common is our love of Motown and the fact that we both hate cops. I plan on bringing both up when I finally meet him. If I do. He’s already in his 80’s and in poor health. And this pandemic won’t quit.
• She looks at me and winks. I melt. It’s so easy to be in my own head but when she looks at me it’s simple.
• She puts my travel mug aside so I won’t forget it on my way back home. She and I both know I will forget it, but she’ll have it full and bring it out to me while I’m pulling out of her driveway. She won’t forget.
• I love her to the moon and back.