"You're so obsessive," you tell me while I run a comb through my hair again.
"As if you don't like it!" I answer, and you nod. You were the one who said that hair on top of the head is good, and hair anywhere else is not good. I then laughed and asked you if eyebrows were bad, then? We agreed that eyebrows (and eyelashes, for that matter) are okay, and you started talking about corsets. Then you moved on to dresses. And high heels. Your eyes were glowing, and you looked so cute that I, for the first time in my life, actually listened to a whole speech about dresses. Me – dresses! That was also the night you claimed that youindeed had more makeup than I, and I shrugged and said you were probably right. What kind of question is that anyway? You also believed you could get me into a dress. Well, let's just see about that, shall we?
Right now, you're hogging the mirror, because you have to put on your makeup. I complain. We're already late.
"It takes longer when you're disturbing me!" you say, and I roll eyes and cross my arms over my chest. Then I smile anyway, because you are just so darn cute.
"Besides, why don't you just go and put on your shoes if you think I'm taking so long?" you now ask, meticulously observing yourself in the mirror. I shrug.
"Because I always wait for you. I need to complain about you and your makeup-time." You catch my eyes in the mirror.
"Why? Because it helps to support your masculinity?" You smile.
"Shut up," I just say.
"Well, I'm done with that," you say and sit down on the bed to tie up your black boots. How you are able to walk in those high heels I will never understand. I put on my scruffy, beaten-up sneakers and don't even bother to tie the laces. I rarely do.
You're done now and stand up, smiling at me.
"Hello beautiful," I say, because you like when I say such things to you. This time is no exception. You smile and place your arms around me, and I find myself once again wondering if it's right or wrong that you're a couple of inches taller than I am. I don't really care. It feels right. We share a single kiss, before we leave the room and into the front hall. Two leather-jackets hang on the coat-hanger waiting for us. I take the woman's jacket and throw it to you, then put on the other one myself. When I'm wearing it, people refer to me as "Danny Zuko" and yes, it does look like it's been stolen from Grease, but you and I have decided that it is cool. After all, we are the ones who should decide that, aren't we?
Just as I think we're ready to go, you say that you've forgot something. I swear, you would forget your own head if it wasn't attached to your body.
"Come on, we're supposed to meet Linda and Jean in fifteen minutes!" I yell, while you're rummaging through what seems to be the whole house. You don't answer. I sigh. "Simon!" I yell, and now you emerge from a room down the hall.
"I'm here, I'm here," you say. "You're the most impatient woman I know!"
"I've said it before." I roll my eyes again. "I'm not a woman – I'm a tomboy."
You send me a smile, and I smile back and take your hand.
Then I open the door, we step outside, holding our heads high, and go out to face the world.