you're always here in my dreams - m.j

pillow talk 1991

     "Come get your booty in bed!" I command, grabbing a fluffed, white pillow from the his right side of the bed and hurling it across the room at the 5'9 gnome dressed in his blue pajama pants and white v-neck t-shirt, who curiously opens and shuts every empty drawer in the dresser, searching for anything that the previous hotel room guests might have left. He lets out a squeal as he feels the impact of the pillow, swiftly picking it up off the floor and aggressively returning it back to me with a flick of his wrist.

     "I'm just-" "I know what you're doing, nosy!" He returns back to searching through the last two drawers. I shake my head with a smile, glancing at the clock. 3:46. Trying to get him to calm down after a show is always a struggle. He starts to wander around the hotel, or even the city out of boredom. I guess the adrenaline high and the difference in time zones restricts him from sleeping well, but it doesn't help if he's walking around instead of trying to sleep.

     "Michael. Get-" "Tu buttocks-o in el cama," He interrupts me to responds in mock Spanish, letting out a little chuckle at his own joke.

     I give him a look as he dramatically groans and flips the light switch, the room only being dimly lit by the lamp by his bedside. He practically drags himself to bed, lifting the comforter to slide his clearly fatigued body into it's warmth. He stretches his left arm out to invite me into his arms as I accept the invitation without hesitation, resting my head on his chest. Once comfortable, he reaches towards the bedside table and turns off the lamp.
     "I love you," He coos in a whisper.
     "And I love you." I curl up closer to him as the room falls completely silent. He rests his chin on my head, lightly running his fingers through my braids every once and a while. The only sounds I can hear are his soothing breaths and when I listen close enough and press myself to him, I can listen to the rhythm of his beating heart. He gently relocates his touch, bringing his fingers to my arm and gently caressing my skin. At his touch, my skin forms goosebumps, despite feeling completely warmed by his presence. He lets out a long yawn, before his breath returns to it's normal pattern. My eyes begin to grow heavier, and it would be a struggle to resist it. Slowly, they close. My body relaxing completely, limp in his arms.
     "Your braids smell nice." My eyes snap open, the silence suddenly broken and alarming my senses.
      "Did you use the hotel soap or something?" He inquires, pressing his face to the top of my head and giving two prolonged sniffs.

     "No. It's just a spray. Mint and tea tree oil," I answer, readjusting to be comfortable again, resting my arm over his stomach.

     "Oh. It's new right?" He hums curiously. I feel comforted by the vibrations from his voice as I close my eyes again and nod my head. "I like it," he compliments, myself becoming once again exhausted and my body relaxing again. However, instead of his beating heart, I can only hear the ticking of the brown clock on the bedside table, reminding me of our elapsing time of rest. I breathe in a deep breath and exhale again, letting myself relax. Michael wraps his arm around me, his touch warming my skin and sending me further comfort.

     "Did you know-" I furrow my eyebrows, being excused from my rest. I open my eyes to once again be met by darkness, however the moon providing little spots of light that highlight Michael and pieces of the room through the window that remains slightly concealed by the drawn curtains. "-That while on cocaine, rats prefer jazz?" He continues his sentence to enlighten me with this pivotal piece of information.

     "Good to know." I close my eyes again, nuzzling my face into the white fabric that masks the soft skin on his chest.

     "They like Miles Davis," He elaborates.

     "Frank Sinatra?" I question, however not thinking that I might feed into his reluctance to sleep.

     "Probably. Who doesn't?" He answers, rubbing his long fingers up and down my arm.

    "True. Goodnight." I agree, however hinting to end the conversation, my eyes remaining closed as I lightly grip the fabric of his shirt.

     "Fun fact," He voices, my eyes reluctantly opening again. "There's a phobia for long words." He confesses the fact, stifling a laugh.
     "It's called 'hippop-" He pauses, reevaluating the word to make sure he says it correctly. "Wait, it's 'hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia," He snorts. Although entertained, I resist feeding into this any longer.

     "Michael, I have a phobia." I sit up on my elbows, watching the light peeking through the window define his facial expression as he furrows his eyebrows.
     "It's called I-don't-want-you-to-collapse-of-exhaustion-at-the-meeting-we-have-in-the-morning-aphobia." He mocks a face of offense, his fingers still continuing to brush over my arm.

     "You just triggered my hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia," He states, a little snicker passes his lips.

     "Seriously, baby, we have to get up in a few hours." I run my fingers through his loose ebony curls, giving him a concerned look. He gives me a sweet smile before wrapping both of his arms around me and pulling me close to him again, nuzzling his nose in the crook of my neck. I squeeze him in my arms as he lets out a deep, content sigh against my skin. I feel at his hair, brushing my fingers through gently while beginning to hum a soft melody. 'Smile,' one of his most favorites. His arms squeeze tightly around my waist, gripping onto me protectively. By the end of the song, his gentle breathing transitions into heavier snores. I leave little kisses in his hair, my body officially receiving the permission to rest and slip into a deep sleep.

  So, we were late to the meeting.