Tiles

So I've become obsessed with tile now. Wall tile, floor tile...it doesn't matter. I see it everywhere I go. I want to see tile all the time. I know what "lippage" is, I know floor leveling, I know grout and grout colors and Schluter strips and Reno Ramps and I dream of it all (literally) and I basically want tile to be somewhat of a focus of my next chapter in life, regardless of what that next chapter may entail. I think tiling is an art and is for certain something we all take for granted (unless becoming obsessed with it, in which case, well, I notice every tile placement now anywhere and everywhere I go.) So there's that.

Then there is conversation.

Here recently I have met someone (someone I've already mentioned in a previous post) who has inadvertently taught me the fine art of conversation. The fine art of conversation isn't something putting into words can do justice. What a brain burner, right? Conversation consists of words and yet cannot be put into words? I stand by this.

There is this thing that happens when two people who are meant to meet meet. Fine to describe it as an alignment of the stars, I suppose, or call it what you will, but it feels, when you're one of those two people, like the entire world is comprised of nothing but you and that person. The Universe shifts slightly, just slightly, to accept the acquaintance of the two of you. Skies accept it, sidewalks accept it, grass on ground and blooms on trees embrace it and night time, specifically night time, warms to it. I'm experiencing this right now and yet speaking of it so candidly like this intimidates me because I fear its imminent crash just because of how deliberate this feels that this has happened. Apologies for the run-on sentiment.

Suddenly I've been inducted into the art of conversation. I adore people, I always have and will, but I typically tire of exchange after a certain length of time. That isn't to say exchanges I have with others aren't incredible, or beautiful, or lack essence, but there is an expiration often on exchanges and when that is reached, parting ways is inevitable.

Somehow, if this is real and true and has really happened to me, there is this person.

I cannot stop wanting to talk to him. We have yet to have engaged in conversation lasting less than 7 hours, and granted, I've only seen him a grand total of 4 times, which yields an approximate conversation time of 28 hours (although that number is slight, because we've definitely talked far more than that. Case closed.)

Next topic: What do we talk about?

I cannot say. Not because it's private, but because it's broad strokes - every one thing hatches hundreds of new things and next things and life things and heart things and brain things and before you know it we have reached 5 a.m. and we cannot keep talking because sleep is mandatory and we both have jobs.

I guess, to bring it back to Planet Earth, he stayed here the other night. We had been walking and talking for hours around Gramercy Park. He accommodated my need to literally palm every plant poking out of the locked park and he held my other hand while I did so. He told me stories. He watched me and I watched him (that's important.) Then he led me to my stoop and we sat there and were indecisive about the next move.

Kisses are cliche to write about though pertinent to the story.

I finally asked him if he'd like to come upstairs and he smiled and he said yes.

The rest of this story is mine in my own mind and will linger like a very purplish-red (*him) hue in my room, in my presence, in my existence moving forward. I can't believe this has happened to me. Regardless of its possible failure or success.

I will say this: his eyes have a very dark ring around the irises. Haunting. Beautiful. Maybe I am falling in love.