Secret Keepers

J wears black almost always. He chainsmokes. He likes white cotton socks with his shoes. He's got a bad right eye. When we shook hands for the very first time, he gave an icy stare as if I were an extraterrestrial zoo escapee. His hands were warm.

Unlike other guys I'd been with, he doesn't really drink coffee. Thus, no ammount of romance started there, like it was normally. He does things differently. He doesn't watch the news, listen to the radio, or making unecessary - yet - sweet small talks.

A few times I noticed how he's not resolutely avoiding any public display of affection as I once suspected. He was just not being used to it. He was not used to having me around. For him I speak alien words, think alien thoughts, do alien business. Strangely enough, I'm not even trying to ask questions, wondering far too long, too deep, on the whys. It's useless, we both know we are adjusting, and I try to leave it that way on its own pace.

Unlike other women he's been with, I'm just a girl, really. Far and foreign to sophistication. I giggle a lot, for instance, and it could get worse when I'm nervous. I poured my heart out. I poured it out instantly, like a fountain with a broken timer.

A few times he had to bear my severe mood swings. He is aware of the periodical PMS. Hormonal tides are something completely different.

Love is confidence. This one will stick like Rexona.