Not sure what this is

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
Not really sure what this is, or if it's shit. Of course, it's only the start of whatever it could be.

Submitted: January 06, 2015

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Submitted: January 06, 2015

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A A A


It was, of course, long before we reached the classroom that my seat had been decided, and yours too. With no influence of our teacher, it had just so happened that circumstances made it so that the only seat within reason for you was my right's.

“So, John. How are things with her?”

She is yours. You don't know it, but you've told me already. Such conversations spark a battle in my mind, of whether my role as your friend or potential lover dominate, that'd have Leon Festinger cumming in his pants.

“Goodly.” You respond. I dance around the option of confronting you with emotions, but decide your social skills while not lacking in existence necessarily are not of the right nature to apply to conversing directly. Instead, such issues must be addressed with metaphors, my understanding of which is fleeting, and certainty of their existence I have little.

Days like today are dishearteningly low in number, but that doesn't matter now. All that does, is that I utilise to the best of my ability the 54 minutes I have remaining with you, because we're seated, and the table masks any potential erections.

I hear a child talking about his self-harming in the back of the classroom. I turn away from you to look. I can hear your head behind mine, your breathing becoming closer, until I feel it on the back of my head. I rapidly rotate my head to face you. You are doing a smile that isn't really meant to scare me. The speed of my turn forces you to retract your head. I've made the same mistake again.

You take my arm between your own and your chest. Holding it. “This is my arm, now,” You tell me. If only you realised it always was. You take my arm, and put it on the desk, our chairs touching at the desk's centre, room at the sides. You pretend to sleep, cushioning your head with my hand. I feel a wetness, it is your tongue running along my hand. I pretend not to notice. The façade of a fear of your germs, protects me, just in case. “What are you doing?” I cry out in disgust that we both know isn't real. You smile the same smile that you smiled that evening.

You poke fun at a past mistake of mine in a way that would embarrass me, but does not because I feel of your thoughts as I do of my own. With our laugh, I place my hand in your inner thighs, they face me now, though they always must have. It's as though the physical contact opens my eyes to yours, because they are suddenly so intense, like our overall interaction just became. With no leaning, we find our faces inches apart, I look into your eyes. Time is a thing of the past now. Your pupils dilate. Our false anger and hate for each other just add to the excitement and intensity. Deny as you might, something is shared here.


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