Conversation with the BF

Sittin’ around on a Saturday with the best BF in the world. We’ve just had tea – I experimented, having tried out a recipe on him that I made for myself on Thursday. So of course it was perfect on Thursday, which means it came out shit today. But he ate it, even said it was good, and that’s one of those wee things that make him the best boyfriend in the world.

So we’re chillin’…he’s reading a book, and I’m playin’ Café Royale on the laptop while singin’ along to Coldplay’s Trouble.

“I love this song,” I sigh contentedly.

“An’ it loves you, too, hunni,” he says, not lookin’ up from his book. Another plus: he may not have looked up at me when he spoke, but he responded when I spoke. He always does, which proves he’s listenin’ – another little thing he does that knocks me out.

“But you like it, too,” I add.

“Yep….’s a good song. I bet he likes it, too.”

“I wonder if Gwyneth liked it?”

“Of course she did!” He’s amused.

“I wonder if he sang it to her…..” I mused idly.

“Who gives a fuck if he sang it to her!” Now he’s laughin’ – still readin’ his book, talkin’ to me, an’ laughin’. Who says men can’t multitask!

“Me,” I respond firmly. “I do – that’s just the kinda detail that interests me….I’d like to know.”

And it does – it would interest me about anybody. It’s those little small things about people that pique my curiosity, it’s why I stare at passing strangers and pretend I’m not gazing into open windows when I stroll down the street.

Supposedly, you can tell a lot about people from their clothes, the kinda car they drive or the things they have in their houses. And I’ll concede that’s true to a certain extent. But for me, it’s people’s faces, their expressions and tiny physical features that make them all unique. The thoughtful gaze on the face of a woman striding across the road. The placement of wrinkles at the corner of an eye, the thin-lipped man trying to smile and not quite makin’ it cause his eyes tell the tale of an angry man.

Couples fascinate me. All couples – gay, straight, young, old. Especially the very young (my definition of young) and the very old. I love walking through City Centre to come upon a young couple kissing on a street corner, totally oblivious to anything but the taste of lips and the delightful discovery of a hand claiming the body they’d thought was theirs. I always want to take a photo and write a poem about them.

Old couples are even better. Their whole stories are written across their faces, and if you’re lucky, you can decipher them. If you look long and listen well, you’ll be able to tell their stories – their secrets – are no better and no worse than yours.

I find that comforting.

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