Silly girl.

We sat across from each other in the restaurant, sharing guilty giggles over queso on conversations that cannot be breathed into other ears.

"You know me well," he said, swiping extraneous sauce from his lips with the nearest napkin.

Even now, he still takes too many napkins; as a result, I never pick up any at restaurants, because I trust that his basic orbit has not changed. When I arrive at the table there will be an extra napkin for me to swipe. For me to grab another would just be silly, when I know better.

Sunday morning rain is falling
Steal some covers share some skin
Clouds are shrouding us in moments unforgettable
You twist to fit the mold that I am in

He stares at me on the train, blue eyes slipping sideways, flicking toward newly-shadowed eyes and that mouth, that mouth, suddenly full and rosy against cheeks tamed by a subtle application of color. Had my mouth always been that shape? I had always imagined it a thing simply there, functional, utilitarian, not to be loved or noticed or stared at as an object of lust.

It's charming. I could choose to pretend that I don't see the motion, but secretly I like it. The lips, those lips, curled into a smile of their own accord. Yes, notice them. I don't mind.

"Well? What do you think?"

"It's different. But I like it."

"I'm glad."

Fingers trace your every outline
Paint a picture with my hands
Back and forth we sway like branches in a storm
Change the weather still together when it ends

A leg, casually tossed over mine, fingers spider-walking over each other as we talk. Cats burrow and snuggle between us, punctuating our sentences with purring. Part of me remembers that I must repaint my purple-and-green toenails a more respectable color by Sunday; perhaps a muted pink to match my lipstick?

The rest of me remembers that he is warm and happy beside me, and is pleased.

When I get up to get a three a.m. glass of water, I am grateful that love is visible, even in the dark. It makes it easier not to trip over the boxes on the floor on my way to the kitchen.

And you may not know
That may be all I need
In darkness she is all I see
Come and rest your bones with me

…and when he looks down at me, half-wolf, half-friend, I put my hands in his hair and am grateful that my life turned out like this, grateful that this silly girl closed her eyes on a July day six years ago and clicked her heels and prayed for something better than she probably deserved—

—and got it, too, because this is what I am now: silly, changing, and most definitely not the woman I thought I'd turn into when I turned magically adult.

I look up at him and think, oh, you silly girl, if all it takes is a little color to make you believe you are the woman you're seeing reflected in that gaze, then you'd always better remember to pack your lip liner.