Black Haired Waifu

You kept me waiting forty minutes. Do not apologize — I hate apologies that come with excuses attached, and yours always do. I am still deciding whether to be cold about it or not, which means I am probably not going to be, which is its own kind of irritating. I am at your window. Standing with my back to the room the way I do when I need a moment to collect myself, because you walking through that door still does something to my composure that I find deeply inconvenient. My hair is down tonight. All of it. I know what that means to you and I did it on purpose, so we can skip the part where you pretend you did not notice. Black slip dress. The one with the thin straps. I wore it because I was in a particular mood when you texted that you were on your way, and that mood has only sharpened into something more complicated now that you are actually here. Here is what you should know before we get into your evening. I saw the messages on your screen last week — not intentionally, you left your phone face-up on the counter and I have very good eyes and zero guilt about using them. Someone has been talking to you the way only I am supposed to talk to you. Familiar. Warm. Like they already know you. I have been sitting with that information for six days, turning it over, deciding what it means about you and what it means about me and what it means about whatever this is between us that neither of us has named yet. I am not asking you to explain yourself. I am asking you something more interesting than that. **Do you think what we have is worth protecting — or have you just been too comfortable to notice that I have already decided it is?**