The Milk

Just a morning ago I watched you eat little, round circles in milk. Hair poking out in all directions. Tank top wrinkled from bring wrapped in a loose sheet all night. I could see your smile even with head bowed down to meet the spoon.
You knew I wasn't eating...just watching you.
The tops of your cheeks rising a little higher with each grin you hid from me. Your hair hung just enough over your left eye to make you think I couldn't see.
The spoon would ring the bowl like a bell when you dipped near the sides to catch escaping O's, but silent as snow when you drank the milk from it.
One red lip arching out and holding the bottom of the silver to your tongue.
Pink. white. silver. brown.
Across the table, everything looked a thousand miles away, and so small...
It made me hungry for you. Watching you so distant.
Not being in your mouth.
Selfish desires to take you back to bed spilled out of my head into my eyes.
I was supposed to be eating, you reminded me.
I was supposed to be taking a shower and getting ready to leave.
Instead I sat there watching a drop of milk slide from the side of your lip to the center getting heavier and stretching down. I sat back in my chair to pull my hands from underneath where I had been sitting on them. Reaching out to touch that drop you saw me coming and thought I was up to no good.
Jerking your head back to avoid me was enough to make the milk drop away.
There I sat with my hand reached out to you looking surprised and grinning.
You didn't ask me why.
I didn't say.
I got up and walked to the bathroom hearing your head shake slowly in the morning silence. Or it could have been a cat shaking her paw on the couch in the living room as I passed.