♪ MUSIC WE’RE COOKING TO ♪
Casually he lifts up his shirt. Revealing cuts and bruises. A skateboarding injury. Meant to impress I think. He keeps the shirt up for a beat longer than necessary. Awkwardly lingering in the moment. Electrifying and innocent all at the same time. As a young man in his early twenties – really, still a boy – is apt to do.
Casually I ask him if he needs an icepack.
♪ MUSIC WE’RE COOKING TO ♪
Mama! The radio just said Air Force One landed at LAX. Can the President come over for dinner? Please?!
What’s Air Force One, Luna?
Air Force One is the President’s airplane, Soleil. And he’s here! If Mama says it’s ok then he can come over for dinner. Can he Mama? Please?! You could make Polo with Tahdig. I bet he would love it. Let’s call him.
George Michael and Andrew Ridgely. They dreamily look deep into my soul – unearthing every little secret and thought as I flop on my bed – chin resting on hands looking even deeper into their souls – the intensity of my stare almost burning a hole in the album cover – held inches from my nose. I fancy myself Andrew’s best bud and the next Mrs. George Michael.
Well – we all know how that all turned out.
The skies have turned grey. The fog is rolling in. There’s talk of rain. Yes, this does happen in Los Angeles.
I need everything to slow down. A break from the daily routine. I begin to yearn for my parallel universe.
That alternate life where I curl up on the couch with my boyfreind – now my husband. Watch a movie at three in the afternoon.
Copyright 2021 Naz Deravian. All Rights Reserved.