A/N: Short, random. I suppose the idea was for this to be that missing scene from A-Tisket, A-Tasket with the pizza and the book buying. Who knows. I sat down and this happened. Leave me a review letting me know what you think.
Somewhere in the back of the bookstore, he kisses me. Among all those great novelists and poets. And we're fiction for a moment. A paragraph in a novel as his hands bring me closer, closer. Until I think we might merge at our chests, become a single entity. We are fiction still when he breathes in deeply through his nose and kisses me again and again. I am the next chapter, starting something new for him, a new series of events. I'm pressed against the spines of Dickens. And this isn't supposed to be happening.
Which is why we are still nothing but fiction. A short bit of prose. A vignette filled with imagery. I feel the soft cotton of his shirt beneath my fingertips and grab it tightly, wanting to steady myself and wanting to keep him pressed against me. Because it seems this is the perfect place for me, stuck between him and a shelf full of novels.
He stops, halting for a second. Already, I'm craving his mouth on mine again. Already, I miss him in such an unbearable way that I don't let him think or say anything before repossessing him. His fingers are in my hair, getting lost, trying to find their way back to my face. It's a lost cause and they only plunge themselves deeper, pulling slightly as he runs his tongue along my teeth.
The store is quiet and I can hear the sound of our mouths, the rustling of our clothes, our combined heavy breathing. We're going to be caught. I'm sure of it. But this is how fiction should be. Suspenseful, reckless. And we're perfect at it. I'm perfect at losing myself the minute he looks at me and he's perfect at making me feel desired and hungered for.
A book falls from beside my head. A thick volume that meets the ground with a loud thud. We're oblivious, of course. Oblivious to anything that isn't a part of the other's body. Oblivious to anything that is reality. We're caught in our own story that is unfolding quickly behind my eyelids. This story is infinitely more interesting than anything else I have read lately. It is definitely more interesting than anything reality could ever be.
We are a metaphor and we are like a simile. We are alliteration: All hands and hearts and hair. All tongue and teeth and touch. All lust and love and losing.
Losing, we're losing. Because this will end soon enough. One of us will need to breathe. His mouth will leave mine and I'll be left with a trail of saliva just above my upper lip. And my legs will finally untwine from his. And we will smooth out our clothing and fix our hair and try to go back. We will emerge from our fictitious world and go back to reality. Reality being the place where he is merely a friend. Reality being the place where his hands have never felt the bare skin of my back. The place where I have no idea what it feels like to have the length of his body pressed tightly against mine.
And it occurs to me why I lose myself in books.