He has no idea what she's thinking. He never has any idea what she's thinking. He hopes she's happy, but who's to say. But he's optimistic. If she wasn't happy, she'd leave, right? Right? He hates hidden meanings. For a brief second he imagines a word without etiquette, without formalities no one really means and without so much personal second guessing. Then the pain in his leg brings him back to reality. He lays back and looks up at the growing number of stars, like schoolchildren arriving for some cosmic rehearsal for an amatuer play. Really there's nothing amateur about the universe, but childish still comes to mind when he thinks of the big picture, in an ironic sort of tone in his head, portrayed by a simple smirk and glint in his eye. He hopes she doesn't see either, because he has moments of broken English around her and her alone, and would fail to explain his actual thoughts. Then he would have to take on, anecdotally, when he tied his tongue that he knew he would, and had been thinking he would, and had been thinking that he was thinking that he was, and his mind drowns itself in some apathetic white flag spiral. But she hasn't asked, so he thinks he's in the clear. He lets his head roll over to her side, and is filled with new thoughts, like being stabbed with a hypo full of carebears. He loves everything about her, and searches frantically for something wrong. Something faulty. And he is disappointed. Because now he is almost sure this is another dream, allbeit a vivid one. Her head mimicks his from a few seconds back and her eyes magically cushion his entire body to where he just doesn't give a fuck. If this is a dream, he's going to give a nice bonus to the awkward new trainee he bought the mattress from. He slides an arm around her, looks back at the stars, and settles in for what promises to be a fantastic show.
He would pinch himself with his free hand but he's still not sure.
(Author's Note: that was fun.)
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