“When I kiss you, to show you you’re forgiven, you taste like bacon and syrup. You taste like my future.” ~ Britney King, Water Under The Bridge
“Get dressed,” I urge you, shaking you awake. We’ve overslept, and this is bad. “We have to go,” I tell you, pulling on my clothes. “Bob despises all forms of tardiness.”
“Who’s Bob,” you ask when you finally climb out of bed. You’re slow in the mornings. I know this now.
“Bob is my contact here,” I inform you. You offer me a blank stare, and I realize getting out of here is going to require more handholding than I thought. I reach down to grab a pair of jeans from your half-open luggage, and I throw them in your direction.
“What does that even mean?” you sigh, and I swear, you are chaos. We’re late, clearly, and you need to know I’ve never done well with disorder.
“It means we’re late. And I don’t like being late. It’s rude,” I seethe as I search for what I need.
“Late for what?” you demand, and you ask too many questions.
“Training? What kind of training?” you ask, and you want to know everything. I want to scream at you. You make me furious, and I want to take you by the arm to dress you like a child, and I almost do. But when I come out of the bathroom, I’m pleased to see that you’re sliding into your jeans and you make me curious too. You go commando, and it’s exactly that kind of training, I want to tell you. But you are a woman, and well, you are you, and I realize this will only lead to more questions.
“The kind we’re late for,” I tell you instead. You can’t find your other shoe. I hold the door open and wait. People pass by, they gawk; they can’t help it. You’re still only half-dressed, and you’re trying, you are. But I can see we have a long way to go.
Named One of….