Compatible, In an Incompatible Kind of Way part 8

Peter and I took a break from practicing that night and just watched the movie in silence. We were in his room, and as the movie came to a close, Peter took his lap top, quit DVD player, and opened his iTunes account. The usual sounds of Nirvana spilled out of the tiny speakers, filling the room with a welcoming feeling that I was used to. I was laying on Peter's pillow, and he lay down next to me on the opposite side of the pillow. I wanted to write. But I was so distracted, something that was unusual and irritating for me. Being alone with Peter was always when I was was the least distracted, when I could lose myself in thoughts of nothing but my characters, their thoughts, their lives. But now, I was thinking about everything but my stories. I was paying attention to the lyrics of the songs I had listened to hundreds of times and never really heard. The smells of the room seemed especially strong today, and I wondered if he had liquid incense somewhere in the room. The dim lighting was disrupted by a beam of sunlight pouring in from the window by Peter's desk. I was irritated that the hair by my forehead was already oily after I had washed it just the night before. I made a mental note to wash it again when I got home. I heard Peter sigh and looked over at him. His eyes were closed and he was breathing steadily, his chest rising and then falling almost in tune with the music. I saw my hand reach out and touch his shirt, but it was as if my wrist had been disconnected from my body. His eyelids rose, his eyes wide, and I quickly pulled my hand back. I blushed and looked down at my hands, now tightly clasped together in my lap. What the heck was that? Peter sat up and took his lap top from the end of his bed, pulling it up onto his lap and opening a word document- a rare thing for him since he so preferred free hand. I felt like I should write too. But I just could not focus. So instead I found myself watching his screen as he wrote. At first I was just looking at the shapes of the letters and the swiftness with which his hands pressed each memorized key, ideas spilling from his mind to the screen. Then I started reading the words. And I felt like I was the one writing it. I was almost predicting everything he would type next- but it wasn't predictable. Every word dripped a resemblance to my own writing. Every loose thought reflected my own. Every lyrical rhythm sang my ideas, my imagination. He finally paused, lost for a moment, and I pulled the lap top onto my lap, typing the words he would have discovered seconds later. He watched the screen as I typed, reading my words. Then he looked at me. I kept typing until I was finished. And then I ran the mouse up the screen, selected file, and saved the document as "peter and victoria". Peter looked at the screen again, and then at me. And now, finally, I was not distracted. All my thoughts were settled on one single thing: Peter.

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