If It Makes You Happy

by Julie Olivia

He’s so different from me. If I’m autumn, he’s spring. He’s all smiles and glowing warmth. His blue eyes are so deep, like the first beautiful clear sky of the season.

His legs stretch out, too, though his black socks extend well past my own feet. We wiggle our toes side by side. And together, with our plates of potpie, we eat with tiny forks beside the dim lamp and the cool glow of the TV.

I like his deadpan humor and his messy, complicated life. I like the fact that he needs touch as much as he needs oxygen. I like that he says what he wants and takes what he wants and doesn’t apologize for either. I like that, at the end of the day, he’s my friend.

And that—that right there—is the exact moment I know I need to kiss him. Because, despite Cliff taking a risk, he immediately backtracks when he thinks I’m uncomfortable. Because he’s that kind of friend. He’s that kind of man.

I love this woman. I don’t know when it happened. It slipped over me so softly, like the changing of seasons. The seeping scent of baked bread first thing in the morning. A wistful sigh on a perfect fall day.