You are in the kitchen with your lover, who is, quite unabashedly, much younger than you. He’s leaning against the island, hair damp from his shower and with bags beneath his eyes so dark that they rival your own, and he’s telling you about a book that he read. You remember seeing it on the nightstand before you fell asleep in his arms, flimsy bookmark peeking out from between bent pages. You do not know why he feels the need to bend the pages as well as use a bookmark to mark his place. The silence of the closed novel is a comforting thought.
His mouth is still running, and although you love the sound of his voice, the way it gets more animated and lively when he talks about something he enjoys, you cannot stand the sound of his voice. It reminds you of how free-spirited he is, and his reckless tendencies, and how much he just does not care about his actions and what’s ahead of him.
Quite unlike yourself, you think, with your impassive attitude and overconscientious outlook on the future, which, although you two have been together for three years, you do not know if you can see yourself spending with him.
There is a nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach as he drags on about his book, doing obscure hand gestures and using the delicate wine glasses on the kitchen counter to demonstrate the characters. He uses your favorite glass to represent the glum middle-aged man. You do not know if that was his idea of a joke, or if he grabbed the glass and named it without thinking.
Is this what he wants for the rest of his life? You wonder idly as he moves to start dinner. He’s happy, no doubt, and so are you, but does he ever stop to think about what he wants, or does he rush in without a care in the world?
Do you want him without knowing what’s going to happen?
You do more than anything, you decide, as he turns from the ingredients strewn about on the counter, and the pot already filled with boiling water, and tells you that he forgot to pick up the eggs.