Mornings

“How come your parents named you Basil? I mean, you are not that old.”

We’re on your sofa, a glass of wine in our hands. We can’t seem to be able to keep our free hand to ourselves. Mine is on your forearm, drawing imaginary circles, yours is stroking my hair.

You pull a face.

“Thanks for that. Well, they’re huge fans of Fawlty Towers. So I guess… that’s why?”
“Oh, you know what I mean. I don’t think you’re old. Or I wouldn’t be here, kissing you.”
“You stopped, by the way. You shouldn’t do that.”

You pull me towards you and leave a small space between our lips. It’s my turn to take this last step.

I kiss you. Something I seem to not get tired of. Even if today you haven’t shaved and my face is already red.

You grab my thighs and lift us both from the sofa. I wrap my legs around you. Your eyes stare deeply into mine, I feel like you might be getting lost in them.

“Come on, I’ll make you like mornings again.”

I fully believe you.

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