In bed with Lily

We lie on our backs in my bed, side by side, I have the wall to my right and she’s on my left. I hope I don’t push her off, I think to myself. We both have our hands on our stomach, and are looking towards the lights strung along the ceiling on the other side of the room. She says they’re beautiful, and I think about it.

“I don't know if they're beautiful, per se, but I enjoy them.” I say.
Then I decide to say it.
Turning my head towards her, I state very matter-of-factly, “You, however, are beautiful, and deserve to be told so far more often.”

She is shocked, I think. No, I can tell. Even though she hasn’t moved a muscle, she wasn’t ready for that.

Damn damn damn damn damn.

“I thought we were just friends, Peter. What are you doing?”
Here goes.

“I thought about us being friends, Lily, I’ve changed my ways of thinking a little.” I start out. The rest comes tumbling after.
“You see, now I just live life trying to make the best choice in every decision, one decision at a time. For example, my telling you about your beauty: just lying here, I thought about the decision whether or not to tell you that you are beautiful. I reasoned on one hand that, if I told you, it could possibly raise all sorts of awkward situations and open a whole new set of brain-things to think about for you. However, I also wanted to give you that memory of that one time, while lying in bed, when that one boy told you you were beautiful. I wanted to give you that memory, and now it's yours, and you can know you are beautiful. Also, I do believe it. You are beautiful, and you deserve to be told that more often.
“Then, I considered the alternative, not telling you that you are beautiful. I could have lain here and said nothing. The thing is, saying nothing generally (but not always) brings about just that: nothing. And I reasoned with myself that if I was after nothing, I wouldn't have invited you to my room in the first place, or even if I did, we would have sat in our different chairs, watched the movie in silence, and I would have sent you along your way promptly after the movie ended, not inviting you onto my bed to discuss philosophy. But I did none of those things, so I must not want nothing. Therefore I decided to tell you that you are beautiful, because you are”
I stop myself here, before I get too redundant. Or maybe I should go on… can girls ever hear that they’re beautiful too many times in one breath? Now she looks like she’s going to talk…

“Do you always think so much before making a decision?” She says after a slight pause.
She seems annoyed. Or angry? Maybe slightly bored… god, it’s so hard for me to read women.
I try not to show my nervousness, so I chuckle and answer her question.
“Ha, obviously not,”

“Like what? Give me an example.” She’s talking faster now, almost like she’s more interested in the subject. Is this a good sign?
And then a thought enters my head, and it all seems right. I want to do this.
“Like this.” I say softly.

Getting up on my left elbow, I look over and see her soft, round cheek in the warm glow of my lamp. God, she’s a beauty. In one continuous motion, I bring my head down towards hers, tilting my head sideways a little, and kiss her softly on the cheek. I lay back down. Not bad execution, I think to myself.

Oh wait…

She’s stiff as a board. No reaction to my advance.

Shit.

A moment of awkward silence ensues. It’s the kind of silence that makes you want to say something, but you know that if you do, you’ll only worsen the situation horribly, so you stay silent, prolonging the awkwardness.

I want to be far away now. I want to be about three pages back.

She sits up. I sit up too, looking at her face. What is she thinking? Did she like it? I don’t think she did. Oh crap, what if she’s creeped out by me right now? What if all she wants right now is to be out of my room… or worse yet, what if she is desiring the companion of some other male? Does she not feel safe with me anymore?

Turning to look at me, she says coldly and slightly incredulously (at least, that’s what I gather) "Do you love me?"

What is she talking about? What does she want me to say? The horror of her possibly thinking I’m a creep paralyses me with fear. All I want to say now, all I want to do, is to make things better, to make her comfortable again. I’m such an idiot.
And yet, all that stumbles out of my mouth is simply the truth.

I look at my feet and speak with a nervous faltering in my voice,
“I feel like I’m the pilot of an unknown vessel in an unknown sea. I don't know how I feel about you or you for me,”

Idiot. This is going to be awkward.