ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The afternoon sun bled honey-gold through the dusty windowpane, catching in the fine hairs of his forearm where it rested near mine on the kitchen counter. A single, stray drop of condensation traced a slow, meandering path down his water glass, and I found myself holding my breath, mesmerized by its journey. The air itself felt thick and warm, heavy with the unspoken words that had been accumulating for weeks between our shared mornings and late-night talks. He shifted slightly, his shoulder brushing against mine, and a jolt, soft as a sigh, traveled straight to my core. I could hear the quiet rhythm of his breathing, a counterpoint to the frantic drumming in my own chest. When his gaze finally met mine, the world outside the sultry apartment simply ceased to exist, the noisy street below fading into a distant hum. His eyes, dark and impossibly deep, held a question I felt my entire soul yearning to answer. A faint, tender smile touched his lips, and he slowly reached out, his fingertips just ghosting the line of my jaw. That feather-light touch was a conflagration, setting every nerve ending alight with a desperate, aching hope. In that suspended moment, there was only the palpable heat of our proximity and the terrifying, beautiful precipice upon which we now stood together.
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