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Using sex as a distraction. Grandma would be proud. Or maybe disappointed.
It’s not smart. For once, I need to think about what I’m doing with a woman. I need to follow logic, not my heart.
This is complicated.
Only I don’t care. I want her too much to care.
I’m outgrowing my naive ideals.
Or I’m regressing to a horny teenager.
Both maybe.
Deanna:You have to earn that.
River:How?
Deanna:You show up here.
River:Not a picture?
Deanna:Aren’t you more the behind the camera type?
River:I do self-portraits too.
Deanna:Is that an offer?
River:I take requests.
Deanna:Okay. I want something really freaky.
River:I’m listening.
Deanna:The tattooed arm.
River:Are you drinking already?
Deanna:You really think I need to be tipsy to admit I find you sexy?
A part of me does. A part of me is the awkward kid in my room at Grandma’s house, drawing blonde princesses because that’s as close as I can get to the object of my affection.
A part of me is still attached to her, will always be attached to her.
But the other part is ready to let go.
It doesn’t want a blonde princess.
It doesn’t want to hold onto anything.
I don’t want to stay on the sidelines and observe.
I want this. Her. Tonight.
It’s terrifying. How can I trust my own desires if they change so quickly? But then again, maybe they haven’t. Maybe it’s just that one part of me, the one that will always adore Lexi, holding onto the only familiar thing he has.
I could stay in tonight, draw until it makes sense. But, for once, I don’t want to examine my feelings. I want to act. I need something warm and vibrant and real.
I lay my arm over the dash and snap a photo. It’s not the most artistic shot, and it’s not the most well lit. A million better versions enter my mind.
