I apologize in advance for the electrician pun.

This picture makes me feel almost as good as I do when her hands are on my thighs and I can graze my fingertips against her freshly-cut fade. Having her close to me makes me feel grounded. We spent the weekend so close we could smell each other’s scent over the wood stove burning (mine bergamote 22 and weed, hers a crisp cologne I can’t put my finger on).

This picture makes me think of Billie Holiday playing over the speakers while I sipped maple syrup moonshine and got tipsy, I don’t usually drink but Eden made it and I felt like breaking my own rule. What else do you do in the dark of winter in a cabin in with the firewood crackling?

Drunk me just wanted to fuck her. Drunk me wanted to climb into her lap and kiss her in that slow and sloppy way that gets me everything I want. When we finally slipped away to the back of my car with the windows all frosty she said I could climb into her lap anytime, she said “It’s your lap,” and she meant it, I think. My heart thumped in my ears as she pulled me closer. I was still breathless from her hands and her mouth and her fascination with making me feel so fucking good.

I don’t know if she’s fucking anyone else. I’ve never asked because it hasn’t mattered. I don’t want her to feel like she has to report to me. I don’t really care if I’m her only girl, but I kinda want to be her favourite girl. She makes me feel like I am. That’s probably enough anyway.

She has a red heart tattooed on her left knuckle. I assumed it was from an ex, matching tattoos or something like that. But nah, she just got it on a whim. It’s right next to my favourite of all of her ink, the ship’s wheel on her hand. Steady, like she is. She has a few different heart tattoos. Swallows with a heart shaped lock and key, roses and a heart, a Celtic-knotted heart across her chest. I’ve been lazily tracing my fingers over them for 3 months now, trying to memorize all of the shapes and words etched onto her body. I try to picture them, piece by piece, when I’m not with her. Her skin tells stories from all the years before me, some she’s ready to tell me, some she’s not. I love how it all unfolds. I’m in no rush. I savour every piece of the puzzle.

We see each other more than once a week. I’m breaking my own rule there too, and I don’t care. I love how she looks at me. I love her smile, and her stupid fucking vape and the way she sleeps with one arm draped over me like she’s watching out for me even then.