Staring at a thumbtack on my wall, watching my vision blur in and out.
These were the days when we both wore t-shirts and jeans. We had long hair and nylon bracelets. Pink streaks peeked from under your black hair; I had an awkward goatee. I was laying on my back on the outside, knees up with feet flat on the cushion. My left side was close to hanging off.
Laying the other way, your head was on my stomach looking back up at me, fingers playing with designs on my shirt. You were on your right side and your hips were up near my right shoulder. My arm was between your legs and holding your left thigh like an 80s hip hop artist would carry a boom box.
Summer was in high time in Rosslyn, and the second story apartment allowed the late morning sun to beam in rays across us through the window on the left side of the white couch. You were in soft focus like in old Star Trek episodes, hair glowing and warm. I laid there for as long as I could pondering how convincing an argument this would make for the existence of heaven.
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