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bloodshotglass
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I cupped his face in my hands. "Beautiful beautiful boy," I called him. And his face twisted into an explosive smile; a smile reserved for the pure and sweet; the compassionate and fragile.
He responded rapidly in a hushed voice, speaking only Armenian. I didn't understand him, nor did I want to. I imagine he called me "Wonderful" in his mess of tangled tongue and otherworldliness of distant culture.
"I have to go," he pleaded, taking his face from my hands and picking up his shirt. He stood up, letting his shirt find its way over the muscular creases of his back; it was oddly reminiscent of the delicacy and the careless a young girl takes when putting on a nightgown.
I watched him leave: his gentle saunter turning into a comfortable swagger before he reached the doorway, his muscles tightening and shoulders straightening. I didn't need to see him walk down the stairs to see his lip curl up in a denied smile and his boots clomp with every step, keys jangling. It didn't matter, because when he was with me he was mine. And he spoke to me in a language too beautiful for words, barely touching on emotion.
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030502
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