He's young and smooth and beautiful and the way his eyes taste my skin makes me burn. A few days ago, his awkward overtures gave way to startling bluntness. I had been waiting for it, for him, for so long that I almost can't believe it. So here I am, drinking a cold beer on my porch, running my fingers through the condensation, wishing the bitter moisture in my mouth was the taste of his sweat. Unable to believe it's possible, that what I saw today was more than just wanting or needing or lust. That my hidden hopes might be true.

Tomorrow, if I see it in his eyes. Tomorrow, if it's there, I'll know it's for real. Then tomorrow... Tomorrow, I'll go to him. Tomorrow, we'll justify our love.