To the girl a couple of fridays ago...

There's a really beautiful look in someone's eyes before you kiss them. Well there is if they want you to kiss them. I mean, its not like I've ever kissed anyone who didn't want me to. Some people have been undecided though, and you've got to, you know, encourage them a little. But that's not as good as when they really want to, as much as you want to kiss them, and you both know its just about to happen.

At a party there needs to be some secrecy about it, and this makes it all the sweeter. That's because everyone is kissing everyone, or at least trying to and you don't really want someone you kissed last week walking in on you kissing their best friend. It's not really their feeling's that you're protecting, because fuck, you get over that shit. I did. It's just the drama. It's never fucking ending.

People dig drama. They plan their lives around it, though everyone claims they're trying to avoid it.
You don't phone friends to chill out. Whether that friend be a white woman, an red-haired man, a large-nosed child or a freaking monkey doesn't make a difference: You don't rouse someone to action to feel calm. No, you want sparks and fire and knowledge and experience, you want something to happen. If that something involves someone you know well, all the better. Now that action is your action. Yours to watch unfold; yours to comment on, with inside knowledge of the key players.
Just don't ever become a part of the action. An actor.

But we fall into these roles.

The secrecy at the party adds to the allure. You both know it's wrong. But there's a soft movement of eye and lip, across rooms that fuels ancient rituals. One half smile from both, and the dance is afoot. You talk to everyone, but hear nothing. I only have eyes for her little communiques, the impatientience in her brow as she waits for bored drunks to leave the room.
I only have ears for the impermanence for her brief chats with friends, willing them to leave her and I alone. Ostensibly we're are reading a picture book. The Very Hungry Catapillar.

Alone, the transition is swift. She draws me in, allows me to move towards her, seeking her lips. She is breathless and giggles. It is a brief moment, passionate and enveloping. I rub my hands through her hair and feel a deep, resonant contentment.

Then the door of the room creaks. I, terrified of discovery by some agent of gossip, leap off. Glancing back her face is painted with what seems like bemused resignation. And a little rsentment. Soon she leaves for home.

Why don't I stay, even for a moment, with something that feels right? Why run, fearing retribution from previous half-assed attempts you already fucked up, lost or ran from? Who are you protecting?

Jesus Jimmy I'd love a few answers to my questions.