Now, it's 10:30-ish at night and Sandra Bernhard is on the tv with her refreshing sense of comedy. I'm still wearing my oxford collar. Unbuttoned and uncuffed, of course, but it still feels great on me.
Sometimes, I wish things were like that.
I'd be coming home from a formal extravaganza, eyes watching the yellow streetlights pass by the window as soft jazz plays quietly on the radio. And my significant other's sitting in the driver's seat, humming to the music without even realizing it.
He'd park the car in the driveway, and we'd stumble half-drunk to the door. I'd fumble with the keys a bit, trying to shrug him off as he tries to get my shirt off. The door opens, and our apartment is dark. The blinds are slightly open; just enough to let the moonlight in and cast it's blue glow. I close the door behind us. Click click, and the lock's secured. I'm home.
He turns me around and our lips lock. Hard. Tongues clashing. Hands caress my back as my fingers quickly fidget with his buttons. I grasp his collar to undue that stiff necktie... and his cologne clings to the shirt.
That's what I love. When I can smell cologne on the collar of a shirt. With a hint of that cigarette scent and red wine. Yeah, I fantasize strangely.
... Well, I really shouldn't. Like they say, "don't look for love and it'll find you." So, I should stop looking for Mr. Right... Ha! Like I believe that one.
. . . . . posted:||10:50 PM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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