My Hidden Lives // Prose

105. about little (big) things

08 03 2013-4

When Jim came over, we were both too nervous to say or do anything that mattered.

After a while, I ran down two flights of stairs and crossed the road to the convenience store to buy some liquid courage. I was half-expecting him to be naked when I returned, ribbon tied around his valuables or some other nonsense he used to consider funny. Instead, he was sitting on my living room sofa, browsing through the channels as if he were at home. There was a game on, and he asked if we could keep the TV on with the most innocent smile he could muster. I said sure and passed him a bottle of lager.

We sat in silence watching players zigzag across the screen until half-time, when he leaned in and nudged me with his shoulder. We kissed, and came up for air just in time for the second half. I made sandwiches we ate in no time. Jim kept his hand casually on my knee.

When the game was over, he told me it’d been one of the best times he’d ever had with a girl. I said I’d never learned as much about football, or men, in my life.

„It takes an awful little to satisfy you, doesn’t it?“

„Watching my favorite team play with my favorite girl by my side? I wouldn’t say that’s a little, would you?“

I smiled and asked Jim if he would come with me to a poetry reading next week. To my surprise, he said fine.

„It’s  the little things you do for the people you love,“ I joked as we were drinking our third glass of wine after the show.

„You have a very different perception of the metric system than most people,“ he replied. „This is as big as it gets in my book.“

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