"Can I come down yet?" you yelled from the top of the stairs.
"Not yet!" came Brittany's, slightly muffled, and disembodied response from the kitchen.
You had been banished to Brittany's room while she "prepared for tonight" downstairs. You weren't really sure what that meant, but you knew better than to argue with her.
"How 'bout now?" you yelled, half a second after her first response.
"You're so funny!" she yelled back sarcastically. You smiled at yourself because you could hear her a laugh in her words. You loved making her laugh.
You went back towards Britt's room, but this time you hovered at the doorway, and stared in. It was like looking into Brittany's world – the one that few people ever got to visit. The first thing to hit you was the scent. Even at the threshold of the door your nose picked up the faint smell of magnolia blossoms, a scent that seemed to linger around Brittany for no reason in particular. You remember asking her about her perfume, or body spray years ago and her holding up a bar of men's Old Spice deodorant, much to your confusion. You figured it was just her, how typical that Brittany would just waft freshness and flowers. It fit, so you never asked again.
You stepped lightly into the room, your feet sinking into the plush turquoise carpeting, the tips of your fingers grazing the rough texture of the wallpaper; roses, and a few doves perched on their branches, looking every which way, as if there are interesting things on every surface, something to look at in every corner.
Out of the two of you, Britt definitely held the monopoly on organization. Everything you could see was in its designated place, keeping her room looking fresh and inviting. Not that all of the order and cleanliness came without its price. Britt took forever to get ready and organized. Waiting for Brittany to get organized is something you've been doing for years, and the routine is simple: everything has a place. Once things are all in their correct place, then life can continue. Did you move the iHome to an outlet closer to the kitchen? It's gotta go back. Does Britt have a gym bag filled with laundry from practice? It's gotta get sorted into the hamper, immediately.
You thought of your own room, where you know pretty much where things are – you're not a complete slob – but where the only things that don't move around are your picture frames (mostly pictures of you and Brittany); which are slowly gathering dust at the corners and on the edges. You thought of your own Cheerios gym bag, sitting in the corner, unopened, festering with a week's worth of t-shirts, towels and spandex. Gross, you thought. You actually shuddered at the thought of opening it later, and made a mental note to throw it all in the wash when you got home.
You made your way to Brittany's carefully arranged dresser. You know the drawers are impeccable, (categorized between style, color, fabric and frequency of use) so there's no need to look in there. Not that you ever would without her permission, obviously. Your glance migrated to the top of the dresser where she keeps the little drawers with her make-up and her jewelry; her rings perched on little hooks, her necklaces hanging from the purple organizer you got her for her birthday, her earrings hanging flat, on what seems to be some spare fishing net she thumb-tacked to the wall. You reach forward and lightly touch a pair that you recognize. They're a pair of long golden feathers that, when she wears them, dangle and sway with the tilting of her head and mingle with the golden shine of her hair in the sun.
Whoa, there, you think to yourself, and quickly bring your hand down. That's exactly the kind of crap that gets you in trouble, remember? You silently reminded yourself to keep the overwhelming emotion in check. The only way to keep this light and casual is to be light and casual. And that just what you'll be, if you could just get that tingling sensation on the back of your neck to stop: it's the same feeling that you get when Britt whispers in your ear and runs her tongue all the way down your – Jesus, what is the matter with you? Get it together.
You were getting nervous. Wasn't Britt the one who wanted to keep things simpler? Why was she spending so much time on this, whatever this was? You sat on her perfectly made bed and stroked the comforter idly, thinking about a couple of things you were planning for later, like you knew that you wanted to feel Britt's long soft hair in between your fingers as you pulled her in close to you. You wanted to whisper in her ear all of the things you wanted to do to her, to make her body feel for a moment what your heart felt all the time. You must have lost track of time because Britt's words startled you out of your hazy thoughts.
"Hi," was all she said, and your eyes snapped out of your haze and saw her standing by the doorway wearing one of those slinky blouses she loved, that clung to her at all the right places. Her arms were crossed and she was leaning against the doorframe, as if she had been looking at you for a little while already.
"How long have you been standing there?" you asked.
She shrugged.
"Not very long."
"Are you ready?"
"Are you?" she asked with a devious smile and held up a blue bandana.
"Uuuh, what's that for?"
"Your eyes."
"Oh, really?"
"Not like that, pervert. It's a blindfold because you cannot be trusted with the simple task of closing your eyes to be surprised," she placed a special emphasis on the 'you' as if every single other person in the world was to be trusted with this task.
You feigned an offended gasp, and open your mouth wide in mock disbelief.
"I'm waiting," she said, the bandana dangling from her finger.
You got up, crossed the room and planted your feet directly in front of her.
"Now turn around," she instructed.
You lingered in front of her for a moment, took the smallest of steps towards her and whispered, "what's the magic word?"
Brittany, as if she was expecting this sort of resistance, grabbed both of your hands and expertly twirled you into a dip in her arms and planted a deep searing kiss on your lips, letting her tongue dive deep into your mouth, making your knees quiver and your grip around her neck tighten. She straightened you up with ease and grace, and you were back to the same spots you were in a second ago. Whoa, you thought.
"Whoa," you said.
"Now will you put it on?" she asked.
"Yes ma'am," you said. "Whatever you say."
"Now that's what I'm talkin' about," she said with a laugh, as she spun you around and tied the bandana around your head. "Can you see?"
"Nope, but wouldn't this be easier if I was blindfolded before I went down the stairs?"
"Nope," was all she said and gave you a quick kiss on the lips.
She put your hands on her shoulders and she led you out of her room, down the stairs and across the living room. You've been visiting this house for years, so you knew the layout even if you couldn't see it. You recognized the carpet of the living room, the texture of the hardwood floor across the dining room, the little rough patch where you and Britt spilled some nail polish and then tried to sand it out.
"Watch your step, please" was all she said on the trip down.
You thought the blindfolded journey would end at the dining room, figuring this was a date and the two of you hadn't eaten since practice. Actually, now that you were thinking about it, you were starving, but Brittany kept leading you through the dining room, past the sliding doors and onto the deck outside. And now that you were really thinking about it, Brittany didn't cook. Measurements and timing, and instructions and quarter-cups and tablespoons and Brittany were things that just didn't work together, as much as you tried. For years, you baked the brownies and cookies for the bake sales and Britt sat on the counter, sticking her fingers in the batter, licking the spoons before you were done with them and getting flour on her chin and the tip of her nose. You had a system, and it worked. Now you were just left wondering that if you were ever to bake again, would Brittany let you be the one to lick the batter off her fingers?
Brittany stopped.
She took your hands off her shoulders and you felt her reach behind your head to undo the blindfold, and pull you from your constant inner-dialogue.
"What do you think?" she asked, quietly.
"I – I, can't –," you stammered, blinking a few times to really see the gorgeous set-up she had spent so much time on.
"Oh dammit, you hate it. Is it too much?"
"No, Brittany," you say with as much warmth and love as you can muster, "It's absolutely gorgeous, I can't believe you. I can't believe you would do this for me."
She flashed you one of those million-watt smiles. Is this what it feels like to be your girlfriend? you thought.
You had just stepped into a dream you were sure. The twinkling lights hanging from the trees, the path towards the tree house in the yard – usually just dirt – was covered in white flower petals leading you towards a table under the maple tree's low canopy. Brittany took your hand, kissed you on the cheek and led you down the path. The yard was mostly dark; the twinkling Christmas lights were right near the house, so they were dim when you were on the grass. The table was a small round table with a red and white-checkered tablecloth that barely grazed the grass below it, two wine glasses stood empty next to an unopened bottle of wine. The label had sophisticated turquoise calligraphy, so you could see why Britt had chosen it for this occasion. You glanced upward and noticed the lit up mason jars hanging from the branches of the tree, each at a different length, each housing a different colored candle that flickered its warm light over Brittany's face, making her eyes glitter and shimmer more than usual.
"Welcome to Chez Moi, madmoiselle," she said with a curtsy that made you smile.
She pulled out your chair and had you sit down before she ran away suddenly, into the house.
"Uuuuh, hello? Brittany!" you called after her.
"One second!" she called from the house.
You shook your head and looked around one more time. You noticed that some of the mason jars didn't have candles at all, just tens and tens of fireflies all fighting to shine the brightest. You opened the bottle of wine with a soft, pop, and poured you and Britt a glass. You took a sip, and looked back at the house, where Brittany was coming out and down the path carrying a restaurant tray, expertly, with one hand while keeping the other at her side with a napkin over her arm. She placed the tray on a small stool next to the table and placed an impeccable plate in front of you.
"Wow," was all you could manage to say.
"Tonight, we'll be having a pan-seared, pepper-crusted steak with a side of creamy golden mashed potatoes," Brittany recited in the half-memorized fashion of a waiter with a lot of specials, "as well as some asparagus in a balsamic vinaigrette. Also, breaded artichoke hearts in a butter drizzle."
"Wow," you said again.
She sat across from you and trained those stunning blue eyes on yours. It was impossible to look away. She smiled and raised her wine glass slowly above the table.
"Here's to you," she said.
"Here's to us," you answered. And you both sipped your wine, not taking your eyes off of each other's, not being able to stop smiling.
"Britt, this is amazing. You're amazing," you said, taking her hand in yours and placing a warm kiss on her knuckles.
You're not really sure what you both talked about. You thought this is what people meant when they were having an out-of-body experience. You ate, and you drank and you touched each other's hands periodically. You played footsie under the table. You laughed loudly and genuinely. You kissed over dessert, once you both had blown out the candles (Brittany didn't care that it wasn't your birthdays, she just cared about the wishes). You took whole minutes just to smile at each other, over the table, under the trees, deep in your certainty that this is what people meant when they said they were happy.