(Personal)

There's a subtle vulgarity in the open spread of his legs; the way he rocks back and forth, swings left and right, and how, when he slid down the chair, his thobe rode up and gave away the faint trail of hair around his ankles—oh!

His face hides beneath the red of his shemagh, and although he'd been talking to my father the whole time, he kept stealing glances my way, and I'm not sure if it was just the excitement of it all but it almost gave me butterflies.

"You don't want to be here, do you?" he asks, the moment my father leaves the room. There's more vulnerability in his voice than I would've otherwise expected.
 
I smile. "I do."

He smiles back; his gaze wanders between my eyes, slowly down my face, and finally settles on my lips. I catch my breath.

My father loudly fiddles with the doorknob as he makes his way back into the room. He quickly looks away, clears his throat, and goes on to ask about my university studies.

Be still, my fucking heart. This is not what you want.

You

They said we were two peas in a pod, so good together
like vanilla ice cream and apple pie
and she laughed for fifteen minutes straight.

She said she liked the way his nose flared when he laughed
and when I asked if my nose flared at all
she said she never really noticed before.

She rolls her eyes at me a hundred and twenty times a day
and I loved every bit of it until
he walked by and she turned and drew a million hearts in the air.

It's been two weeks and I still can't wrap my head around
her praise for that girl
with the eyes and the hair.

And then she came around and called me a miserable asshole
said I'll always be alone
and I'm picky and hard to please and I never like anyone

and I said,"I like you."