Oh, how?

I meet you and you give me a tiny yellow man. Bonhomme jaune. I'm not sure about you. When I'm with you, you are soft and beautiful but you're not H. I don't adore you. But I can't help but think of your arms. You are taciturn, by nature, and have a perfect body, wrapped up in a uniform of grey and denim, to make you look masculine. You're so beautiful.

We have sex, and you're so brusque, as if you're stuffing a chicken. It's easy, but it doesn't set me on fire. Yet, I like it. I like you. I'm just not sure exactly how much. It's odd, how much you remind me of J, with your messy studio flat and hints at other things, deeper and darker. 'Pourquoi tu me regardes comme ca?' you ask. I say, 'parce que t'es belle. J'aime regarder', and stroke your angular face. Odd. You're taciturn when we're not in each other's arms, and I'm taciturn when we are, because I'm evaluating how much I like you. More than or less than? You feel so much more direct when we're half naked. Clearer than I am. In the day, it's the other way round, dressed in our armour, me as a lady (you say) and you in your uniform.

I decided to sleep with you because I do like you, because it was nice to touch you and hear you. Because I should take more risks, I can't just live closed off. But I didn't really love it.

It is nice, in the middle of the night, to have you turn over and put your arms around me and hold my hand. Your spindly little arms that are so strong. I feel calmer, as if I've been destrung, or just repaired somehow. I feel as though you've cleared me out or cleaned me up, though you don't know that.

It's an odd mix. It's not like the other one night stand I had, so difficult and out-of-body. It's more involved but I'm not sure how involved I actually am.

I am sure that you're beautiful. I'm sure that your skin is soft. You're shy, but not when we're together like that.