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“I’m not sleepy,” I say honestly.
Bree bites her lip.
“Me neither. I think that I could be awake forever.”
“Me too.”
I’m sure that I won’t be able to sleep either. I’m hyperconscious of her body, the heat that emanates from it, making it difficult for me to concentrate on anything else. She turns on the bed, looking directly at me, and I can feel her warm breath hitting me.
“Why did you turn the lights off then?” she interrogates, wanting a sincere answer.
“I was hoping that the darkness would inspire you to sleep.”
A laugh escapes from her mouth.
“I’m not a baby, Stan.”
“I realize that.”
I’m well aware that she’s not a baby.
“Plus, it’s not like we’re completely in the dark. That lamp is as bright as the sun.” Bree pauses for a second and arches a brow. “Are you scared of the dark, and that’s the reason why you have that huge lamp?”
I groan because she has a tremendous ability to get into my nerves. She indeed learned it from being a younger sibling, or maybe it’s on her genes. The smaller she is, the more energy she will have to mess with people. Sometimes I wonder how we managed to get along.
“Bree, you’re annoying,” I tell her. An innocent smile draws on her face. It’s everything but real because she’s undoubtedly messing with me on purpose. I reach for the lamp and turn it off, leaving the room in complete darkness. My eyes adjust quickly, and I’m able to see her face in the shadows. “Happy?”
She hums.
“I dunno. I can’t see your eyes.”
I frown.
“For what reason do you want to see my eyes? Is that an inner fetish?” I give her a taste of her own medicine.
Her chuckle shatters the intense mood that is installed in the room when we laid down in the same bed. The truth is that it’s hard for us to take anything seriously. It’s our way to relieve nervousness and anxiety.
“Don’t be silly. I like… I like to look at people in their eyes when we talk,” she explains briefly in a secretive tone. “This feels intimate.”
I agree with her statement.
“Do you want me to go?”
Bree shakes her head, and her hand finds its way to my arm, lightly caressing the skin. I gulp as a lump forms in my throat.
“I didn’t say that, Stan. I just said that this feels intimate.”
“Maybe it is.”
“We’re going to end up having a deep conversation, aren’t we?”
Even when she says it as a joke, it’s the type that carries some truth. It’s midnight, and we’re in my bed with the lights off, our faces separated by a few inches. It’s almost mandatory for us to have an in-depth conversation in which we’ll say stuff that we’ll regret. We’re probably going to express more than we would during the day when all of our barriers are up and guarded.
“It seems like that.”
We stay silent for a minute, absorbing the intensity of the situation.
“And we’re going to end up saying more than we should,” she guesses, sounding more severe with every word that she pronounces.
