She loved that he tasted like tea. They acted a little like they weren’t sure how this would go; like they’d never been this close before. But they had. This was how it used to go: they would bare their souls to each other and then make out like teenagers. He tasted like black tea and when she buried her face in his neck, his smell was like an awakening.
He smiled at her, she at him. Familiar faces, kind eyes. They had both seen each other cry. He kissed her and she kissed him. His five-o’clock shadow was a little rough on her skin and later she would feel the heat from his whiskers on her cheek as she drove home. The tension that usually filled the air around them had evaporated and suddenly it was just the two of them, unchaperoned by the reality that usually kept them in check.
They finally stepped away from each other, the spell broken, the night suddenly cold again. “No frost tomorrow, clouds coming in.” He said. “Yeah.” She replied. She always wanted more from him. “It’s past my bedtime.” She said. “Talk to you tomorrow.” He replied.
Disappointment and the aching need for his touch curled around her like a scratchy blanket as she pulled out of the parking lot. His headlights in her rearview mirror for a few blocks and then gone. She willed him to call her, to tell her that he needed her, had to have her, wanted her to meet him somewhere…anywhere…but the phone stayed stubbornly silent beside her as she drove.
She realized that in the deep seeded friendship they had; would always have, they were equals, but anything more than that and she would be the one who loved more. She hated that her tears tasted like pity but she smiled and thought again how she loved that he tasted like tea.