The games we play.

It’s like when you were little and the little boy from across the street came over to play, and you made him play house. Except now, there’s making out. And real food. And, no one has to go home when the streetlights come on.

In fact, sometimes you never go home at all.

I have been playing house with RCB for the better portion of the last month. He spends at least five nights a week with me. We cook together, we clean together, we watch tv together. We lay on the couch and read together. We go places together. Are you getting the “together” part of all of this?

It’s kind of weird how one can fall into such a comfortable routine. It’s no longer really a question as to if he’s coming over but, more so, when. We have become so used to each other that it’s kind of scary.

But what’s scarier is the fact that we are playing house. While it’s obvious to both of us that we “like like each other,” there is no talk of marriage or, really, “what” we are doing. We are just doing. There is lots of talk about tomorrow and next month and this summer and the nebulous future. But I think the “pretend” aspect of this scenario is keeping up so occupied that nothing else matters.

I feel like I’ve reverted to childhood with this seemingly innocuous game. This time, though, it’s not so harmless and there is an intensity to it that is unequivocal to anything I’ve ever done or felt. But, is it really that intense or do I have blinders on because I like having someone wash the dishes while I put the laundry away? Because I like cuddling on the couch and watching Jeopardy? Because the thought of going to bed alone makes me kind of sad? Do I like playing house or do I like the idea of it? If we switched RCB out with someone else, would I feel the same?

If you had asked me a month ago, I would have said maybe. Ask me right now.