You don't know what to do with her.
This was three days ago. She stood atop the toilet, shaking her hips in a little victory dance, celebrating her hard-won dominance over he ergonomic shower head that refused not to leak. The way you watched must have been amusing (you should really polish that poker face), because she halted the shimmy in favor of throwing her hands above her head. You broke from examining the finer details of her little cotton underwear to see where the hands went. Upward: navel, breasts, collarbone, neck, jaw, lips -- pursed in a coy half-smile, nose, sleepy coffee eyes, dagger eyeliner like a giallo actress, thick eyebrows plucked into submission that's really more a blend of containment and appeasement, equally full hair that she won't wash when she goes on tour ("for good luck"), little gold bracelets, wrists, fingers calloused from a decade of pulling at a bass guitar and a cello before that, all in a ball except for the middle ones. Not a bad way to get flipped-off. It made you smile back.
"Not before tour," she reminds you. You should tell her next time that its only a myth for boxers so it definitely doesn't apply to mid-level rockstars. Nevertheless, you comply.
The chivalrous thing to do is help her down, so you wrap your arms around her -- one at the waist, one mid-thigh, and gently raise her, being careful not to bump her head like last time ("Fuck! No, I'm fine."). She's lighter than expected, so you let one arm dangle. Now it's just you and her waist and that little cotton barrier that's riding up a little courtesy of your forearm, exposing a patch of warm, soft skin you imagine a thousand ways to touch. The kiss is imminent, but doesn't happen -- things lead to each other and it's better this way. Restraint. Your strength holds all the way to the couch, none of that damn shiver from straining a muscle group too hard, and you could even navigate the narrow hallway and its vinyl land-mines without breaking eye contact. It feels good, like you did something manly, like you're as strong as you should have been all along.
You sink into the couch and press play and Audrey Hepburn says something about being the "world's champion blind lady" and you wonder what Charlene would look like with Audrey's haircut. It's a little high in the back. Brings out her ears though. She's in your lap. The hairs on the back of her neck bristle, and you lean in to kiss her goosebumps away.
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