He watches me from the door, struggling to get my clothes on. I'm late as it is and haven't dried my skin properly after the shower. Or that's what I prefer to think is stopping me getting my jeans done up. I eventually manage to get the zipper half way closed and just pray that'll hold, pulling on a camisole that barely touches the waistband of my pants I don't even bother trying to wriggle into my sweater opting for one of his shirts instead. It's long, the extra foot he has on me an advantage this time, reaching half way down my thighs it covers what I want to be covered. He chuckles as I struggle with the buttons, the long shirt sleeves handicapping me from doing even the simplest of things and so he helps doing the buttons up from the bottom to just below my bust line.
I look in the mirror and know it won't be long now, 'til we're forced into making an announcement. We haven't said anything yet you see, I keep saying "We'll tell them at weeks," and when we get there I set a new target. At this rate I'll be lying on a gurney at 10cms before I officially say anything, but people have started to talk. As I wear his clothes more often, to cover my upper body, as I wear flat shoes and have to dash out to the bathroom to pee at what feels like five minute intervals, I no longer take cigarette breaks and have stopped drinking coffee. People stop talking when I enter the conversation and I just get a feeling. He says he hasn't told anyone yet, just his father, but he's thousands of miles away…who's he gonna tell? I don't know why I'm keeping it some big secret, probably because I don't want to here people's doubts, the surprise that we're going through with it, the wondering whether I'm good enough for him – in their eye's he's a perfect man, they've forgotten his mistakes but not mine. I'm an alcoholic, a smoker – I've broken hearts, I'm the one with the weird family; the neurotic mother, the brother who ruined a funeral. He's practically an angel in comparison. An angel with a heart breaking past, eyes that hold secrets and an unrivalled kindness.
He rolls up my sleeves, puts his finger under my chin and lifts my head so my eye line meets his. "Tell me what you're thinking." He says.
"How I'm not worth this. I'm not worth you."
He doesn't say anything at first, just pulls me into a hug, he lowers his head so his lips are next to my ear, and says so softly I could barely hear it, "Volim te."
Then I realise what matters; I love him too.
