Enamorado

A beautiful little blonde girl sprinted (or, well, excitedly wobbled) into Dunkin’ Donuts today.  I watched her a few feet from the door, untangling herself from her father’s big hand and sneakily glancing back to make sure he hadn’t disappeared while she ran ahead.  Her pink flower hat was lopsided and her eyes scrunched when she strained to looked at the pictures of coffee and sandwiches above my head.  None of the pictures showed anything appetizing; she had eyes for the pink sprinkle donut behind me.  The little girl pointed, turned her head sideways eagerly to her dad, looked back at the donut, pointed again, agonizingly looked back at her dad, and again to the donut. 

“Okaaaay, we’ll have the pink sprinkles—

“Yay Daddy! Yay Daddy! Yay!!!!”

“…ummm, a double chocolate and, well, oh, a medium coffee.”

With donut in hand, in a moment of blissful happiness, the girl toothily smiled at me and blew a kiss before being enveloped by her dad’s comforting arms. 

I almost wanted to cry.  Why can’t adults show this affection, this emotion, this pure desire for sweetness?

When I am next to you sometimes I do not want to stop kissing you.  I want to kiss your eyelids, your forehead, your ears, cheeks, temples, jawline, Adam’s apple, fingertips, wrists, palms, knees, toes.  I want to devour you in idyllic innocence.  But the adult in me warns to stay detached, display intense emotion only when provoked or received, for fear of losing the sweetness I so crave.  I excitedly wobble into your arms and just as quickly sidestep.  I set my intensity to simmer instead of boil.  I behave like an adult should (or would). 

The simple truth is, I am such a child and you are so sweet and I adore every part of you, Ian.

--Ashley