𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐘 (𝐒.𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍) [𝟐]

16| Real life

The lights outside were bright. He rarely came to Los Angeles, considering that he prefered New York, but now, with her, and as sappy as it sounded, he felt that he could go anywhere with high hopes and ready to take off. But only as long as she was there.

He had never been one for poetry, but in that night, with her on his chest, barely moving, he couldn't help but recall one that he'd heard (more like read) some time before.

"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close."

"I didn't know you were a poet."

She chuckled and lift her head from his chest, placing a light kiss on his jaw. His arm tightened around her waist, placing her body right on top of his, her head underneath his jaw, as his fingers traveled her back.

"I'm not. It's Neruda's."

"It's nice. Very nice."

She pulled herself, sitting and straddling him, his hands now on her waist as she moved to get his shirt. She put on the shirt and rummaged through the bag that she'd left by the bed (on the floor, on a rush to get to the bed) and fished her phone out.

"Do you think I can still ask room service for strawberries?"

"What time is it?"

"Ten thirty."

She got up, almost tumbling down, but his hands (that were still on her hips) balanced her. She stopped by the  bathroom's door.

"Do me a favour? Call room service, ask for strawberries and sugar, please. I need to take a shower, I'm feeling all sweaty."

He sat up, one hand already on it's way to the bedside table, his eyes fixed on her.

"So am I!"

"Then make it quick. You know how long it takes me to shower."

If he were to be honest, that had probably been his shortest call ever.