"Jessey, Jessey, no."
He rumples his hair. He takes off his glasses. He keeps fidgeting.
I smooth his hair back down. "Come on, Jessey. Please."
He plays with my shoelaces. He plays with his shoelaces. He ties them together. Mine and his. Black and red. "This is us," he says. "This is you and me."
He never holds still.
"Just once more."
He grins. That grin. Doofy and too big. He pretends to lick my shoes. "As you wish, m'dear."
I laugh. I always laugh. He never holds still.
I take his hand and curl the fingers to make a fist. He pretends to punch me. I pretend to bite him. He laughs. He always laughs.
I put his fist under his chin. I make him pull up his feet and hunch forward. His laces are untied. Red laces.
He crosses his eyes. He sticks out his tongue. He never holds still.
I brush his hair across his forehead. Black hair. Darker than mine.
I tell him to hold still. I tell him to hold still. "Please, Jessey."
He never holds still.
I unclasp his fingers. The word "Why?" is written across his knuckles in red pen. It's been there since Saturday.
Saturday I told him to hold still. But he never holds still.
I clasp his fingers around the stem of a rose. It is long and green, but the thorns are black underneath. The petals are red.
"This is you and me," I say. "This is us."
With his other hand, he takes mine. He laces his fingers through mine. Written across my knuckles is the word "Wait." It's been there since Saturday.
Saturday I told him to hold still. Saturday I told him to wait. Saturday the sky was dark. There was no moon and no stars.
Saturday he asked me why.
I curl his fingers again. I put his hand under his chin. The letters "Why?" are upside down. His other hand holds the rose. I put it around his knees. I tell him to hold still.
The shutter clicks.
The shutter never clicked on Saturday.
Saturday I told him to hold still. Saturday I told him to wait.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because you never wait." You're missing the night. It's black out. The stars are gone. The moon is dark.
"Jessey, hold still." He never holds still.
I wanted to see the night in his eyes. His eyes are black. Darker than mine.
I kissed him. On Saturday I kissed him.
"Why?" he asked.
I held up a rose. Its stem was long and its petals were folded perfectly.
He rubbed a petal between his fingertips. He couldn't tell that the petals were red. It was too dark.
"This is the only time red and black are indistinguishable," I said. "This night."
"You always hold still," he said. "Waiting."
"I don't want to wait any more."
His eyes were dark. Darker than the night.
"Hold still," he said.
Our shoes we left by the rose. The laces were twisted together. Mine and his. It was impossible to tell red from black.