Who are you?
Their relationship really began (again, for the umpteenth time), the morning after.
"What did you mean, you wanted to have sex with the Real Mr. Me?"
She looked over at him through her freshly showered curls, at his early morning wrinkles and sunken eyes. She was looking for a clue, for his smile, wondering how honest she should be in her answer.
She decided to stop looking at him. Her fingers traced, picked and caressed the patterns on the silk hotel sheets. Her mouth stumbled, trying to remember all the eloquent speeches she had told his posters, the silver framed picture of his beside her bed.
"I want you to know how much I appreciate that little boy on TV. And your act, and that guy onstage who plays guitar. But this... this you, whoever it is you are now-HERE, this is the guy I wanted to talk to. The only one I ever cared about, seriously. The rest are beautiful, but distant, like pieces of art. Somehow, I met you- sometime, ages ago, when you had let your guard down. You were smoking in the parking lot. We talked, it was nice. I kept hoping to see that man again. I kept wanting to kiss him"
What had begun as a smile on his lips, turned into a blank expression. His features fell from their usual twinkling arrangement, into the face of a man. He remembered that night, how terribly sad he had been. Still mourning the loss of yet another woman who wouldn't understand him. (He had always found himself having sex with Girls, yet waking up with Women). The years he had spent in torment over never being good enough would haunt him. With deja vu happening every morning, he had long since stopped wishing he could get those moments back. And pushed forward with this Woman, deciding that THIS time he would get it right.
Who
Their relationship really began (again, for the umpteenth time), the morning after.
"What did you mean, you wanted to have sex with the Real Mr. Me?"
She looked over at him through her freshly showered curls, at his early morning wrinkles and sunken eyes. She was looking for a clue, for his smile, wondering how honest she should be in her answer.
She decided to stop looking at him. Her fingers traced, picked and caressed the patterns on the silk hotel sheets. Her mouth stumbled, trying to remember all the eloquent speeches she had told his posters, the silver framed picture of his beside her bed.
"I want you to know how much I appreciate that little boy on TV. And your act, and that guy onstage who plays guitar. But this... this you, whoever it is you are now-HERE, this is the guy I wanted to talk to. The only one I ever cared about, seriously. The rest are beautiful, but distant, like pieces of art. Somehow, I met you- sometime, ages ago, when you had let your guard down. You were smoking in the parking lot. We talked, it was nice. I kept hoping to see that man again. I kept wanting to kiss him"
What had begun as a smile on his lips, turned into a blank expression. His features fell from their usual twinkling arrangement, into the face of a man. He remembered that night, how terribly sad he had been. Still mourning the loss of yet another woman who wouldn't understand him. (He had always found himself having sex with Girls, yet waking up with Women). The years he had spent in torment over never being good enough would haunt him. With deja vu happening every morning, he had long since stopped wishing he could get those moments back. And pushed forward with this Woman, deciding that THIS time he would get it right.
Who
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