“Do you ever think we remember this as better than it actually was?” He said carelessly as he lounged with his legs hanging over the arm of the couch.
“What do you mean?” She didn’t really hear the content but knew how to answer.
“Us. Together. Do you ever think we just think we work when we don’t?”
She heard those words, “you don’t think we work?”
“I didn’t say that. I was just wondering if we think we we’re better than we actually are?”
“Why do you ask?”
“We break up. We get back together. We break up. Now here we are, in the process of getting back together.”
“We’re getting back together now?”
He laughed and said in a slow singing voice, “we could be together, if you wanted to.”
She smirked and ran her finger behind her ear, pulling her loose strands of hair with it.
“Mmhmm,” was all she said.
He tilted his head on the couch cushion and looked in her direction. She was leaned on the table and looking out through the window into the darkness. The reflection of the streetlights showed a hazy, broken mosaic of her face. Picasso must have been in between the fragments of light.
She was wonderful at killing a conversation. She was also wonderful at turning it into something different. Something more. Something with less words. Words weren’t always what they were made out to be and she worked between them in looks, glances and stares. A finger running along her thigh or lips hovering just away from your ear. Words weren’t her forte, that was his thing. She didn’t need them anyway.
He stared at her a little longer as she looked away, waiting for her to turn back. There was never a sign if she would or not. He’d always wonder. She might turn and smile and invite him in. She might keep looking out the window contemplating the night, or she might turn and smile at him and beckon him to her. He never knew and he loved it.
That’s what made it worth it.