short short story

A real tomorrow

He understood how life online and life offline really weren’t the same any more.

He didn’t mind being open about himself; that really wasn’t a problem.  He did want to feel loved, though.  And he was clear by now what feeling love meant for him: it meant being played with, being serious, being stroked and caressed, being made to jump, being made to cry in anger, being cuddled up to, being amused and laughed with – and even, on occasions, being made quite incorrectly fun of too.

And he was still quite able to love people who loved him in different ways.  But on a nightly basis, on a daily breakfast, on a waking-up in the morning sex-in-the-kitchen sense, he needed more than he’d ever received.  He needed it because he needed it: he had no further desire to analyse.

That’s how he was: he’d finally met himself out there, and gone and said to himself: “I love you as you are.  Don’t justify your self.  Just work out a way of being it.”

And though it wasn’t perfect, and there were – there would be – messy edges and scratchy moments, the future was brighter than it had ever been.

The future was orange.  The future was green.  And the red in the bed was no longer.

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