you're a soigné.

and he's a sapid who falls for raw conversations, those in which he knows the person is not playing. falls for carefree, inadvertent smiles, those which aren't intended to impress. falls for souls, not the skin carrying it.

three years. bits of situationship. one house, two rooms. race driver, pr manager. a cheap bottle of pink moscato— your favorite, his dislike. it was sweet, but he drinks more than you do. drinks you more than you does him.

he had you against the mirror. see you. feel you. but in exchange, you had him see what he looks like, have him see what kind of man you pulled out of him— eyes squinting and squeezing shut, eyebrows raised and slanted as if he's about to cry, his mouth agape.

that sight alone, the enormity of his desire, disgusts him. this limerence is a curse. he's not at the age where he can make mistakes based on his emotions anymore. he's not at the age to be allowed to do that.

but he has never felt as perfect as he did when he felt your eyes on him. so here he was, lasted ten rounds like freak, like a g.