Rosie Labrun is a lot of things: a college student on the cusp of graduation; an intern for the Portland Pirates, a romance novel connoisseur; and the most recent addition to her resume...the girlfriend of a professional athlete.
She won't let it d...
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Lust is temporary. Lust is not knowing someone but thinking you do and thinking that you'll be together forever, just because the warped image you have of them in your mind, says so. Lust is not knowing someone at all; knowing only the things you think you know about them. Picking up on miniscule details as if they'll tell you everything you need to know. Lust is thinking you know everything there is to know about someone based on a ten minute phone conversation.
Love is a choice. Romance novels and Hollywood productions might make you believe that it's a feeling - something that just one day happens to you, as if you bumped yourself on the head and everything is suddenly different, it's not. You just have made yourself believe that you're in love but really, you're in lust. So, much like in Monopoly, you should go around the block again and collect the $200 because that person you just moved in with that you don't actually know? Yeah, you'll be needing to move out, real soon.
Love is knowing that someone sometimes leaves the toilet seat up - despite you nagging them, they are forgetful sometimes. Love is knowing someone snores like a train rumbling into the station after a long day - and still looking forward to sharing a bed with them, every night. Love is showing everything you are to someone and holding your breath because you're so fucking scared that they might not love you for who you really are.
In some ways, that's why I never wanted to meet Erik. Not the Erik in his current form, but Erik when he was Matthew and living across the country with an erect penis in his hand. Erik when he was someone that I only knew from the phone and was head over heels for everything that I knew about him. Erik when I knew he wanted kids, voted left, and would never judge someone for whatever religion they are. Unless they were Finn from Glee when he decided to pray to a piece of grilled cheese, because that was some seriously fucked-up shit.
The point is, life is easier and relationships are simpler with lust. The issues that arise is when you expect them to automatically transition to love, when the person you've been daydreaming about is nothing like you thought they would be.
Maybe that's why I avoided meeting Erik when we were talking the first time, because I liked him so much and who he presented himself to be, that I was scared he would be different. Even more terrified that he would be exactly who he said he was and I would transition to love. Love, a feeling when you actually can't live without someone; when their every-being is what makes your world turn and you can feel yourself missing them when they're not around.
Not because they look nice or have smoldering brown eyes that glisten and light up whenever they look at you, but because they're your best friend and you have a joke you really wanna tell them. Or someone happened on that one TV show you were boring them to death with the details of, and despite deep-down knowing they really have no interest in reality tv, wanting to tell them because they've made such an effort to care about the things you care about, that you believe they do.
That's love. And I can say with every fiber of my being that I love Erik King. And with those same fibers of my being, I can say I am scared as shit. Terrified. If this were a horror movie - well, first off I wouldn't watch a horror movie because only people that enjoy pain watch those, so maybe I actually would, but if this were a horror movie, this would be the point where I die tragically - or really shittily, depending on whatever the budget is.
"You don't have to say anything, if you're not ready, it's okay." Erik begins to ramble, as he does only when he's worried that I'm not gonna like whatever he's just said. He shoves his hands in his pockets - not in an aggressive way, but in a "he's a kid with nobody to eat lunch with so he's sitting alone", kind-of-way. And I for one, would like to sit with him.
Unless it's Wednesday.
"No, I mean...Are you sure?" I ask, uttering the phrase I know oh-so-well, but usually just use to double-check something I already know the answer to, rather than asking something with a pit in my stomach that I'm so terrified he might change his mind on.
I think if I'm really being honest with myself, I know he won't. I can confuse myself more than a foreign movie without subtitles as much as I want, but in the end, I know how he feels about me. Because he makes it clear, every day, every night, every minute. Maybe in five years, or ten years, or twenty, he'll feel differently and cheat on me with our neighbor down the street because she has perky tits and a tank top she wears too low, but right now, I know he loves me more than anyone's ever loved another soul.
Or at the very least, more than anyone's ever loved me.
Granted, I haven't been loved by any - unless you count Mr. Fluffypants, whom I am seriously hoping has some reciprocal love he'll be willing to shed one day. Because as of this moment, much like a lazy man not willing to do anything but stare, all he does is lay there.
"Of course I'm sure." His voice doesn't come out as overly confident, or like he hasn't thought it through. It comes out like he's spent wakeless nights thinking about this very moment; or I suppose, the moments that this one may create. Mother flying fuck, he better not propose right now. "I want to be with you for the rest of my life, Rosie." He says, stopping midst of this frozen hell to look at me and caress my face. I don't know where this man got his moves, but he could even give a young Leonardo DiCaprio a run for his money.
I stare up at him, suddenly understanding the innerworkings of Mr. Fluffypants a little bit more - and perhaps why he sometimes might just sit and stare at me with beady eyes. I imagine that's a lot of what I look like right now, to Erik - except I do bathe more than once a year. And I have not had the side of me methodically cut open to stuff more stuffing inside, then be sown back up by a crazed lunatic holding a flashlight.
Or maybe I have and I just don't remember it.
"You're not doing it right now, are you?" I blurt out nervously, never having been proposed to and not wanting to miss my chance...to act like a complete and utter disgruntled mess. I would probably look even Porky the Pig look graceful.
He laughs, part of his reaction seeming to be a relaxed nervousness that's now gone to subdue. "No, Rosie. I'm not proposing right now." He assures, barely allowing me a moment for relief before leaning down and kissing me. It's a nice kiss. Not sexual or tongue-thrusting or dog-licking; it's just nice. It says I'm here and I love you. And then he says, I do too. And then the imaginary audience in my head throws popcorn at the screen because this is definitely not what they signed up for.
"You made me nervous." I laugh, leaving out the part that I almost defecated all over the ice on the ground. I cringe imagining the second-hand embarrassment he would feel, making polite eye contact with passer-byers. Sometimes I imagine myself doing very awkward and unnerving things - though, I'm not sure if that's just a me problem or a universal faux-pas.
He laughs again, seeming to be in slightly better spirits now that he's gotten his answer. Or I suppose, his answer about an answer. I hope he at least tells me before he does it, well in advance so I can pack my bags and dig a tunnel underground. He'll need a headlamp and some tenacity to get to me.
"Did I?" He's still staring down at me, holding my face captive and in his hands. It feels nice. Except very intense, too intense if it were anyone else I was looking at. But in his eyes, I stare at with a microscope looking for bacteria. Sometimes they make me forget how to breathe, or how to say anything except do me big boy.
He leans down and kisses me again; this time, it's longer - more passionate, less public, more talking about what he wants to do when we get back home. Telling me about we're going to be bumping our pelvic areas until he needs a hip replacement - at which point I will need to do some of the work, and then we'll resume to him entering me into our eighties.
"Trust me, when I propose for real, you'll know." He tells me, his breath barley grazing against my mouth before going in again.
