While she was sleeping

Even I was amazed at myself. There I was, in Andrea’s house, in Andrea’s living room, sitting on Andrea’s sofa, with Andrea herself right beside me. And we were alone. I wasn’t entirely sure how I had ended up there, but I congratulated myself on a job well done anyway.

It sort of happened like this: I called up Andrea that evening just to talk to her. I didn’t give any excuses. I just told her “I felt like talking to you,” when she asked me why I called. She took it a little too well, with a smug, “So you miss me already.” We talked about movies, and how she likes violent, blood and guts “boy movies” - a term we had coined for the antithesis of chick flicks (which she also loved). I told her I had a bootleg version of Gladiator. She replied that she had a VCD player in her house. Minutes later, I found myself driving over to her house in disbelief and excitement, and I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.

At times I think Andrea knows I like her, which would make her one of three people in the world who know. There’s her best friend, Connie, in whom I confided once, there’s Andrea herself, and then there’s my mother, who somehow just knows, no matter how hard I try to hide it. Other times, I think Andrea doesn’t have clue. Andrea is used to guys heaping her with attention. Sometimes, I want Andrea to know that I like her. Sometimes I want nothing more than to tell her. There are always a million reasons why I don’t — none of them good ones.
After the movie, we just talked on her sofa. It got late, and when her parents announced that they were going to bed, I offered to go since it was the proper thing to do. Andrea would have nothing of it, and made me stay. I wanted nothing more than to stay.

With her parents safely tucked away, we let our guard down. She reclined on the sofa, put her feet up, and leaned against me. Her hair was in my face, but I didn’t mind. She smelled great. I could smell her hair and almost catch the fragrance of her skin.

Our voices got very quiet, and I kept stroking her hair while we talked. “I like that,” she said. “It makes me sleepy.” And we talked more about movies and people and our lives and other things I don’t remember. Before I knew it, she was asleep.
At first I didn’t know whether or not I should be upset that she had fallen asleep on me in mid-conversation. But as I looked at her, all traces of annoyance disappeared. Her face looked so peaceful. Her mouth was opened slightly. I could hear her breathing.

I continued to stare at her upside-down face. Her head had slipped down to my stomach, and I leaned over her and asked, “Are you asleep?” She obviously was, but she answered me in her sleep, mumbling something inaudible. I leaned closer to her to catch what she was saying, but I couldn’t make it out. I watched her lips move, but couldn’t make out the words. I was so close to her, I could have kissed her. Still looking at her, I lay my head on the back of the sofa and began talking to her.

And then I told her everything I wanted to tell her.

Fifteen minutes later, I woke her up by gently nudging her shoulder. I told her I had to go, and wished her a good night. And it really was a good night because I knew that a part of her knew, even if it was that part of her that slept and didn’t remember anything when she woke up. That was enough.