“We’re Bestfriends…”

They say we’re bestfriends. But they touch…boy, do they touch!

Their knees bump as they sit facing each other. Their hands brush lightly every now and then. For assurance… for assurance… they ascertain the lookers-on.

They fear something, I believe. Do they fear that we might speculate? Surmise? Assume?

We can’t help it, you see. Even with objective eyes, we see certain things. We are not altogether blind…

He rubs her back sometimes – back and forth; up and down the length of her lithe back. He intertwines his index finger with the tips of her waist-length hair. It lingers there longer than necessary – his index finger. He looks into her eyes as they speak with one another about things. Their fixed stares bore deeply… they gaze and sear into each other’s soul in search for something.

Hope, perhaps? Do they have a chance?

What we have here… is it something more than friendship?” is his perusal.

What we do here… is there a point?” is her query.

They don’t know yet; no one dares to speak the truth between them. Perhaps they are in denial… Nonetheless, we sense it, but they do not fan the flame.

They hold back.

There’s strain.

There’s tension.

There’s fierce control.

Why is that?

We’re bestfriends, they claim… and keep claiming. That’s the best they could conjure up to call their curious regard towards each other. They both bear back-bending baggages. One comes with an affectionate interest for another; the other comes with a cicatrised heart wound caused by another.

Bestfriends, indeed! We will let them be – touching – just touching. We are here waiting, waiting… for something more – something that might grow. Out of the seeds… out of the electric jolts of attraction and desire, maybe.

I sometimes think it’s lust…

I sometimes think it’s romance…

My ideal self thinks it’s love…

My pessimistic self thinks it’s a temporary outburst of infatuation…

We merely watch and look as he steals a kiss on her nape. She doesn’t budge; it doesn’t seem to bother her. She doesn’t mind that his hands squeeze her arm fat… her knee… her elbow… her shoulder… in a manner too affectionate for a looker’s comfort.

He brushed his lips against her hair and smells her… I blush, but she doesn’t. She seems familiar with this gesture…

He is protective of her. He built his fortress around her – building an invisible fence so no one can enter. Anybody who dares will merely figure out and see and say “Oh, his mark is there! On his lady fair!”

I could only wait and anticipate until one of them is spent and calls for the end.

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