I take it back

I think you like me. He looked at me like I was crazy. No, really, I think you like me, I said. He had just finished toweling himself off from his shower and crawled into bed, so his toes were cold as they wedged next to mine. His hair, wetting my shoulder as he leaned his head on it, smelled like coconut and jojoba.

What do you mean? Of course I like you, he said.

No, I mean you liiiike me. Even the stuff that annoys you, you like that too. You say you can’t stand when I don’t close my drawers or closets all the way, but I secretly think you like getting out of bed to close them. You like completing me. Oh, and when you ask why my shoes never quite make it all the way into the closet—and instead stand outside the door like waiting to get into a concert—I know you like putting them away for me. Your laugh betrays you.

This list could have gone on for a while. I could have mentioned my inability to fall asleep if the dishes weren’t washed or why I save left-overs only to throw them away, but there was no need. He got my point.

Yes, Jasmine, I like you.
I know.
Nevermind, I take it back.
What?!
I don’t like you. I love you.

And with that, I let him rest his head on my shoulder. I smelled the coconut again and went back to reading.