Life's a dance

The New Guy. Should I give him a name? Will he continue to be New? Will he continue to be in the picture? It's all up in the air right now. I'm not sure where we stand, what may happen. We're doing the dance.

The one where I'm not sure how to act sometimes [all the times], sometimes where it feels like there's a space between us, where the things we say probably don't mean a thing. It's the space between the words, the movement between us, the smell of him on my skin. All these words feel trite and unnecessary. Why, there's no need, when I can still smell him on me, can feel the space of the words between us.

And then, oh here I go, coming home from the New Guy, and there sits Mr. Right's laundry. There it is. Left over from the previous day when we had grand plans to drink cheap beer and do our laundry together. The plan got scrapped. His laundry remained. So here I am, folding his shirts, breathing in the way they still smell like him even after I've washed them.

It doesn't add up. I can't leave the New Guy and then find myself smelling Mr. Right's freshly laundered shirts. Bizarre circumstances aside, this doesn't add up.