Last Night Is This Morning's Apology

Seven thirty a.m. and I couldn't sleep.

Through the fuzzy darkness I saw Holden's piercing yellow eyes, staring intently at my bundled up body and my slumbering bed mate. H lay splayed out on top of the records collection on the top book shelf- watching me quizzically, his sweet face tickled by the occasional flick of his bushy squirrel-like gray tail.

My eyes snapped into focus.

The numbers on the digital clock told me that it was early. Too early to be up on a Saturday. Faint trails of light snuck in through the blinds, and danced over the dresser and bookshelves, highlighted floating particles in the air.

He lay with his back to me sleeping, his muscular athletic shoulders expanding in and out with each deep breath. Outline of his body illuminated by the teasing early morning light, despite the dismal gray downpour that pattered against the windows.

I had never been in his room before.

As I rolled over and began to take in his room, I felt a warm lump beneath the small of my back. Another pair of cat eyes looked up at me earnestly from beneath the shelter of blankets. Merc graciously moved a few inches to allow for my body to release the tension and fall back into the sheets, the mountain of pillows.

I can never sleep during the first sleepover with a new guy. I wake up, restless yet sleep deprived, peering in the darkness at him sleeping soundly, taking in everything in my presence. To see someone's bedroom for the first time- to see what it is that makes them THEM. To want to understand and drink in all that defines who they are.

His cowboy hat from his recent Mexico trip rested cock-eyed on the edge of his mirror. Ticket stubs to the Beastie Boys and Bears football games tucked in against the wood and glass. Two computer monitors hooked up to his DJ equipment, his turntables, his main switchboards, his recording equipment. An electric guitar propped up diagonally against the dresser, the picks wedged in between the strings like teeth, embossed in gold lettering and primary colored swirls.

Holden still perched on top of the prized records collection, the ones used on turntables back in the early 2000's for The Enigma's DJ gigs before he transferred over to digital media. Tiny Star Wars figurines in boxes, standing proudly next to Chewy Pez dispensers. An American flag tacked onto the wall, hanging proudly. One of his old paintball face masks laying on a computer monitor. A collection of pewter nondescript rings on the end table, a cellophane enclosed display of wide-eyed Peeps marshmallow chicks. An embroidered hat bearing the logo of the semi-pro football team he plays for front and center on his dresser. A few bottles of cologne, textbooks, and hard reads.

And now me.

I alternated between the items in the room, and sneaking glances at him as he slept- the air pregnant with all of the things we've still never said. All of the things I wanted to tell him spasmodically fluttered around my chest cavity, making the air too thick to breathe. Instead, I lay dormant, like a sleeping volcano before it spews its ash and melted core for the world to see. I lay there waiting. Wanting. Hoping.

He slept, completely oblivious to how I was laying there beside him, awake and numb, watching the neon numbers flick ahead one minute at a time. Each minute longer than the last.

Sleep overcame me in blurry waves. I occasionally awoke when Merc snuck underneath the blankets and lay across my stomach. When Holden's tiny paws crept daintily over my legs, seeking out a new spot on the comforter.

I opened one eye at 8:30 in response to the deep rumble of a kitten's throaty purr, and opened my eyes in time to see Merc snuggle in between him and I, as he rubbed his striped face and whiskers into one of his master's shoulder blades.

It was then he briefly awoke, rolled over, faced me with foggy, sleep-filled eyes. Chuckled softly at Merc, and in silence the two of us lay in bed, smiling, petting Merc with heavy hands, cuddled up on each side. I felt so happy at that moment, nothing was said, but it just felt right.

Every once in awhile our socked toes would curiously lay on top of one another, a shot of electricity coursing through my body. He'd switch sides mid-dream and for awhile I'd get to feel hot puffs of his breath on my arm. My body tensed; goosebumps then replaced his warmth on my arm every time his breaths receded.

I wanted nothing more than to hold him, to reach out in the stillness and grab onto him. To have him look me in the eyes and tell me without a word that this is right, this is safe, this is something I can hold on to. Instead I laid there in silence, practically shaking from my cowardice.

The night before was filled with herb encrusted swordfish steaks, risotto, steamed veggies and a bottle of white wine. The amazement that this guy can cook permeated my psyche after the first heavenly bite. His roommate retreated into his room for the entire night, and we wined and dined and laughed, exchanging stories and sneaking glances.

The question arose soon after dinner. A question that had never before been uttered, not once in the past month and a half:

"Are you driving home to your parent's house tonight, or are you planning on going back to the city?"

A simple question, really. But not in this case. Before last night there was never a question as to whether or not he or I would go home to our respected houses after a date. It was understood that we would. This time was different. He asked me about it. He wanted to know for a reason.

A bowl of freshly buttered and salted pop corn later, we were both asleep on his suede couch. I awoke at 1 a.m. to "Blind Date" on WGN and two curled up sleeping cats on the floor.

I turned to and shook him, gently whispering his name until he jerked awake, eyes full of confusion. He looked at me, muttered about how tired he was, and nodded off again.

Thirty minutes later we both were propelled awake, and faced each other quizzically at the crucial juncture in the night where decisions need to be made.

I rested my head against the couch, my eyelids drooped to half mast. Curled up in my pj pants and blindingly white socks.

I looked at him earnestly. "Bedtime?"

He nodded in agreement.

Then the words came tumbling out, cautiously, softly.

"Would you maybe want to stay here tonight? You know, if you're too tired and don't want to drive home. You can stay here with me if you want."

I had wanted nothing more.

Imagine how embarrassed I felt when I produced my toothbrush and tee shirt that conveniently had come along with me for our dinner date. Procured evidence that I was hoping for this outcome. That I knew somehow it would be this way.

The dull murmur of TV voices drifted through the walls of his bedroom, the bed resting against the only barricade between the voices, his roommate, and us.

I gingerly climbed into bed, unsure as to what next, the excitement causing my heart to slam against my chest in pounding bursts.

We climbed into bed in the darkness. Laid on our backs side by side. He thanked me for joining him, for coming over, for spending my Friday night with him. I thanked him for cooking dinner, for having me stay, for......

I could sense him becoming paralyzed with slumber once more.

I lay there in the inky blackness, feeling as though the collision of his fingertips with my skin would send electric sparks into the air. As I lay there in bed, I knew I had to do it.

I reached over and cupped the side of his face with my palm and slowly, purposefully, kissed the corner of his mouth. I felt him jump a little at my touch, the electricity transferring into his body. Gently, I turned his mouth towards mine. For a short time we allowed each other to express what we felt, pronouns and verbs jettisoned aside for shy, deep, slow kisses and body heat.

His body responded to mine and he rolled over on his side and we faced each other, fully tasting each other's lips for the first time, two people afraid of what they have and what the future entails, afraid of letting their emotions fly, afraid of telling each other the truth.

We then lay there holding each other. Our noses practically touched as our breathing slowed and our embrace grew limper. As we began to lose our fight with sleep.

I lay there as if on fire, wishing him awake, burning to tell him everything, to finally not hold back.

This morning, after a quick kiss goodbye, I drove home to Chicago with pouring rain cascading on my windshield, butterflies and lead in my stomach. Because every time it gets better. And now this defining moment must only mean that we are moving forward- slowly. But moving nonetheless.

Our lack of physical demonstrations of attraction confuse me and leave me breathless. I constantly fight back the urge to hug him, curl up onto his chest on the couch, reach for his hand in the car, plant a kiss on his gorgeous lips when I see him. What is he waiting for? What am I waiting for? I wish he would tell me how he feels yet I'm too afraid to open up.

One of my best friends talked to me today and explained to me that she and her last boyfriend started dating last July and nothing really physical happened between them until September. That I should realize that this means that FINALLY a man respects me and cares enough to want to invest in me emotionally. To be a gentleman. To let me know that he is afraid of over stepping boundaries, that maybe he wants to know how I feel about him.

I feel like I'm treading water again. I think of him and feel like there is no air left in the room. I hate how every time I see him I worry that it will be the last. Because of my wall, my emotional barricade, I worry myself sick and think that every time I see him I need to trace the lines of his face and body into my memory.