He makes me nervous–but a good nervous. Just thinking about him sends me into a whirl. I want to surround myself with him. When I get to be alone with him, away from everyone, and for this brief time, it’s just the two of us in his place, on his street, in the city, in the state, in the country, in the world, in the universe…we are the only two that matter. We sit side-by-side, my eyes forward, my hands placed gently on my knees, feet planted firmly on the ground, afraid that if I move, that I really won’t be in this place with him, that I’ve dreamed it all along. So I sit still, cautiously casting sideways glances to make sure he really is there next to me, but being afraid of getting caught looking at him. I look anyway and am reassured he’s there, and relief starts at the top of my head and makes it way down to my toes, and I curl them into the thick, plush rug. I am satisfied for the time being that this is real, and so is he, and I return my gaze to the front. We sit untalking and I begin to worry my silence is off-putting, that he thinks I have nothing to say to him, but in reality, my brain is buzzing at all the things I want to say to him, but can’t make my mouth form the words; besides, there’s the music. There’s always music between us. I don’t want to ruin the moment with my words because they don’t compare to the words we’re hearing being echoed off every surface of the room. I feel as if I’m being watched, and as soon as I sense eyes on me, I catch movement in my peripheral vision, validating my suspicion. He had been looking at me and I wonder if he liked what he saw. Suddenly horrified, I bring a hand up to my face, in fear I may have had something there that didn’t belong and that’s why he was staring, but he says nothing, and we continue sitting. I want to touch him all the time. I want constant physical contact with him as a wordless way for me to communicate with him. Touch is powerful–it can electrify or horrify. It can cause extreme pleasure or intense pain. I hope my hands on him elicits only pleasant responses, but I keep in mind the latter, so I limit my interaction. I want to get up out of the cavernous depths of his couch, stand in front of him, my arms outstretched to him, pull him up and close to me, and entwine my fingers through his hair as I kiss him hard and deep. Our breath and pulses rapid at the suddenness of it all, but then both slowing and becoming in sync as we realize this is a good thing happening. I want his arms to wrap around me, his hands to fan out across my back as we kiss. I want to look into his eyes, to memorize the color in hopes that the shade of blue is all I see when I close my eyes. Instead, I stay seated, afraid to make the move, any move, for fear of it being the wrong one. One bad move could ruin this, but not moving could also do the same thing. The buzzing in my head gets louder as it yells at me to do something, anything, just do something goddamn it, quit being afraid, quit it and do it, but I don’t because he makes me nervous–good nervous, but still nervous.