Teaspoon

A cigarette lits the night.

Against his wishes, time is once again consumed by the memory of a woman, the woman he can't get off his head, because even though thinking hasn't affect his sleep, he feels uncomfortable facing what she provokes in him. He hasn't felt this way for long, facing the strange pleasure those emotions cause. Knowing that in the dark of his room he can't be seen (she can't see him) he smiled satisfied.

There have been some hours since he was with her, but he can still see her flirty face smiling before saying 'don't miss me too much'. He only smiled back, to see her fade later in the crowd without daring to say he already missed her. The memory has filled his mind with doubts. Maybe he should said it, confessed he misses her sweet face and her coquette eyes, tell her how much he likes to always agree with her, admit her presence cautivate him in a way time had made so unusual. But he didn't, he doesn't know if he will ever tell her.

Doubts kept making him feel even more uncomfortable. He wanders if maybe she hides something behind her words, if her smile hides some secret until this moment undecipherable to him. What should he do the next time he see her? Keep playing the game? Will she keep playing? He wants answers, but he wants them full of sweet mysteries, as it has been since the beginning.

The clouds that covered the night sky are gone. His face is illuminated by the pale moonlight.

Sometimes he'd like to have the emotional range of a teaspoon like the rest of his gender, not to feel so many things...

...but not tonight...

...not with her...

A cigarette dies.