I gasped for air as our lips parted. I smiled the smile that I knew he loved. He mirrored my actions.
“Don't you think we should at least try to finish painting? At the very least one wall?”
I giggled. What could I do? I was helpless under his spell. “OK. One condition though.” I giggled some more.
He smiled. Already he could guess what I was thinking. “Fine, but we have to get this done. Today.” Now he laughed.
“Kiss me first. Then you can paint the wall with your Michelangelo hands. And laugh while I paint stick-figures.” I was such a horrible drawer. At least, I thought so.
“You don't give yourself enough credit. You are wonderful at painting. No art lessons either.” He came closer to me. I could feel his body heat emanating from his chest. His hand reached my face, and he pulled me toward him to where our lips met. “OK. Now can we go back to painting?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Blissful girl.”
“Only when you're with me.” I smiled again. That seemed to be happening a lot when he's around.
“Always.”
“Always.” I promised.
Then I woke up. I started crying again. That was the day he told me that he loved me, and the day he got shot. Wrong place and wrong time. Too bad I didn't go with him. It felt like I did.