Somehow she ended up sitting next to me on the couch as the five of us snuggled. Three of us ended up on the L shaped couch, the other two on the floor. And there she was. Next to me, sitting back after she had gotten the movie—“The Shining”—set up on her TV.
It didn’t take long for me to forget about my discomfort and focus on the movie, which was good, and not so scary that I couldn’t watch. But then she grabbed my arm and pulled it around her, lying her body back against my chest, and I could smell how nice she smelled — she was obsessed with nice-smelling lotions and hair sprays. I tried not to let her feel the tension that she inspired in my body and act like being that close to a girl — or anyone, really — was something that I did all the time and was completely comfortable with. So when she picked up my hand and used it to cover her eyes when things got a little too intense on screen, I pretended I was fine, that I loved when people touched my hands, which were notoriously sweaty. Self conscious? What? No, of course not.
When someone had to leave, we paused the movie and took a break as they prepared to go. Next to me, she stretched then leaned over to get her phone, which was on the table on the other side of me. I wasn’t prepared. Then all of the sudden her cheek was right in front of me as she reached for her phone and checked it. The sweet smell of her hair was even closer to my nose. There wasn’t really any space to lean back. Did I even want to lean back? My body certainly wasn’t cooperating — or even functioning at all, really. When she was done with her phone, she put it down and turned her face towards me, as if she were surprised that I was there too.
Freeze. Her eyes looking right into mine, her face so damn close, the beginning of a playful smile growing on her lips. The moment lasted a few seconds but felt like a cliché eternity.
And then she was gone, pulling her face away as she stood up to walk our other friend downstairs.
I sat there, eyes closed, breathing in, breathing out, trying desperately to recover.
Bisexuality isn’t real, my ass.
