lean again mean again

You don’t have to do this, you know?
I know.

In the shuffle space between the two sentences, I wrestle in my pockets to liberate the contents. With the change and the receipts and the pen lid seated fatly on top of the book on my bedside table, I look across and make eye contact with her for only the third time this evening. Almost anyway. Settling for the space between her mouth and eyes that is neither nose nor cheek – just an indeterminate joining of features – it’s a direct and indirect plea for a kiss.

We keep standing in the middle of my room.

Silently, the bargaining begins. If she looks me in the eye, I’ll kiss her. If she looks away, I’ll put a CD on. If she moves closer, I’ll kiss her. If she sits down on the bed, I don’t know what I’ll fucking do. Why doesn’t she kiss me?
Unexpectedly, she wedges her hand into her pocket and pulls out a wrinkled chewing gum packet, an accordion five dollar note and a watch head. Placed on the bedside table by my pocket detritus in a little junk puddle, the piecemeal arrangement looks like a childhood trade table.

Got anything else?
A mouth.
Done.

To complete the transaction, she leans forward and moves my jacket across my chest to make a path for her hand as it snakes around my waist and suddenly, we’re kissing.