Your
NFL team won tonight, and I couldn’t help but smile and congratulate you in my
head. Smile about your adamant belief that if you wear their jersey five
minutes before the end of the game, you’ll help them win. Smile about how hard
you kissed me when they did. Smile about how when I asked you why you root for
them when you’ve never even been to Colorado, you replied that as a little kid,
you liked the colors of their uniforms: a vibrant orange and a navy blue. And
it just stuck. Now you’re theirs forever.
I’ll
let you in on a secret: I’m jealous of them.
Because somehow, falling asleep in
each other’s arms every Sunday night turned out to be a ritual far too
difficult and complicated to follow. Somehow, kissing me with other eyes
watching became too strange. Somehow, even though you swore that the color of
my boring brown eyes is your favorite, you’ve decided that you’re tired of
looking into them. Somehow, it’s easier to commit to a bunch of burly men who
have no idea you exist than to a girl who has forgotten what it’s like to exist
without you.
