Over the Hill

He called me “Hill” because he couldn’t pronounce the “J” in my name. As stupid as Hill sounded, though, I accepted it because anything sounded beautiful when rolling out through his puckered lips. He whispered things into my hair, his hand trailing up and down my back to tease because I knew I didn’t understand a word he said. So I spoke quite frankly back to him, telling him all the things I wanted to do to him, all the things I wanted him to do to me. I could be as explicit or as vague as I wanted. He didn’t know what I said either, which added even more excitement to our misunderstandings. He knew what it meant when I wound my fingers through his long dark ponytail and I knew what it meant when his kisses crept lower and lower on my stomach. But apparently he didn’t know what I meant when I told him I loved him, and I didn’t know what he meant when he tried to explain how he wound up naked and in the same bed as his brother’s wife. He didn’t know the horrible curses I called back at him as I drove away, and I don’t care what happened to him after that.

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I don't know when I wrote this. A couple years ago, I guess?

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