Dreams of 18(112)

And smile.

“Hi,” I say.

She appears startled, her eyes going wide and her lips parting a little. That wasn’t my intention at all though. I was just trying to get control of the situation, as my therapist, Kate, says.

Get control of the situation, Vi. That’s the best way to beat anxiety. Get out of your head and try to do things, pay attention to the surroundings.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” I chuckle slightly. “I just thought you wanted to say something to me.”

Although for the life of me I can’t imagine what.

My knee-jerk reaction is to assume the worst. Maybe she wants to tell me that my dull blonde/brown hair is a little too dull or my lips are a little too thick. Maybe she wants to comment on how pale I am.

All these thoughts run into my head but still, I smile. I keep smiling at her, waiting for her answer.

“Sorry.” She chuckles too, a little bashfully. “I just… I love your dress.”

Surprised, I look at it myself. I’m still not a dress or make-up kind of girl but I do wear both sometimes.

I sweep a hand down the skirt and take a deep breath.

See?

She gave me a compliment. It wasn’t anything bad that my doomsday brain made me think. Everything is really fine.

“Thank you,” I tell the girl, looking up and smiling again. “I love it too.”

“I just love the colors.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I love how pink and red go together.”

Okay, now this makes me happy.

Like, really, genuinely happy with no hint of anxiety at all. It fills me with warmth and safety, and I look down at my dress again.

It is a pretty dress.

Pink in color, like really girly pink – my favorite, with giant red roses on it – his favorite.

The man who bought it for me. For whom, I wear dresses and make-up. Not because he asks me to but because I want to.

“They do, don’t they? I love that too,” I say, looking back at the girl.

“I know.”

And just because I’m bursting with happiness, I tell her, “He bought it for me.”

I tip my chin up and point in his direction. The girl turns and looks at what I want her to see.

Him.

My honey.

That’s what I like to call him these days. He’s got a lot of names though.

Strawberry Man. The Beast. Mr. Edwards.

Graham.

And the best part? I get to call him by every single one of them whenever and wherever.

Right now, I wanna call him honey.

Because of what he’s doing – he’s in the candy aisle, directly opposite to me, buying me lollipops, and not just one pack of them either. He reaches up and I see him going for at least a couple of them, which he then proceeds to throw in his cart.

Gosh and he looks so sexy doing it too.

His big hands dwarf the colorful packets of candy and his frown as he reads their label is so totally in contrast with the cheerfulness of lollipops.

But that’s how he does things, my Graham.

With care and precision, especially if it involves me.

“He loves me in red. But my favorite color is pink. So we compromised,” I continue as I watch him buy me candy.

“Oh,” the girl says in a surprised sort of way as she looks away from Graham and focuses back on me.

There’s a glint in her eyes. It’s a glint that I’m familiar with and if I’m being honest, it’s a glint I kinda have a problem with.

At least, sometimes.

It’s a glint that’s speculative and that says she’s wondering about us. She’s wondering if we’re together, Graham and me.

Over the past two years, ever since I started going out and mingling with the world – all alongside Graham, we’ve gotten quite a few glints and looks like this.

First of all, it’s the fact that he’s huge and he dominates over everyone around him. He’s doing that even now. In his plaid shirt and hiking boots, he’s the tallest man in the aisle. Tallest and broadest. So when we walk down the street together – him, all giant and me, all tiny – people stop to take another look.

But most importantly, it’s the age gap.

I’m twenty and he’s thirty-eight, eighteen years older than me. And people notice.

They notice the lines around his eyes that have deepened and increased in number over the course of time I’ve known him. They notice the silver hair in his trimmed beard and his sideburns. They notice the maturity on his face and in his demeanor.

They notice all the things about him that make him so freaking irresistible to me.

Often times, people are okay with it. They don’t give us a second glance. Other times, they stare and wonder but don’t say anything. But occasionally, we’ll come across someone who stares and wonders and also says things.

Turns out, this girl falls in the third category.

“Is he… Is he like, your boyfriend?”

Good.

I’m glad.

Surprisingly, I’ve come to be a fan of facing things head on. I like when people are upfront. It doesn’t give my doomsday brain time to make up disastrous scenarios – something Kate pointed out to me in one of our sessions when I told her that I hate it when strangers talk to me.