Andrew Breihan

Andy is always strumming his hands across the steering wheel, adjusting the volume up and down with his ups and downs, though appropriately so in uptowns and downtowns he’s down to get up and up to get down, if you know what I mean.

His tanned hands are tough skinned, and he tosses filth from under each fingernail by picking one with another, an unyielding battle. Dirt will hold no home under his nails though if he has a say (he doesn’t).

He’s keenly perceptive to conversations occurring beyond the literal, and will skim through the autobiography your eyes have written, even when you’re sure you haven’t published any material.

The only time you’ll ever see him be picky is when he digs into the wedges between his teeth with wrapped delights hostesses offer as their only parting present at restaurants, even when he hasn’t had a bite to eat.

He’s shy about catching compliments pitched his way from left field and bats his eyes to giggle off insecurities, but he’s become every fan’s MVP regardless.

There are two salty hairs that grow from his full peppery beard just to the lower right of his mouth, seasoning him to aged perfection.

When he’s nervous he bounces all of his appendages, not unknowingly, and starts to vocalize inane observations, probably to escape the not-so-fun house inflating worry in his mind.

His favorite place to be rubbed is on his inner thigh and when you get that sweet spot he looks over with the sweetest smirk showing no teeth, but when you’ve gone too far he raises his brows abruptly and shoots a wide eyed “ut oh” in your direction, so sometimes I go too far.

When I think of how naturally it comes to have his hand intertwined in mine I feel an unknown organ rear its hooves in the sensitive area in my upper abdomen. It feels like my soul has been lassoed and is being tugged by this cowboy clad in the most handsome 5 day old facial hair, worn denim jeans cuffed at his ankles just above those supposed blue cotton shoes ripping at the seams, tanned unbuttoned flannel, and uncombed chocolate brown hair carelessly thrown under a maroon corduroy hat he lets me wear.

We’ll have conversations led by song, finishing one another’s sentences in lyrics to new verses and fall asleep in the silence we miss during daylight.

He gets playful in the evenings and knows now where I respond to his tickling fingertips.

He bunches up my hair by rubbing my neck when we stand side by side and though I dread the feeling of dreading locks, I angle into him because I know he’s great at geometry.

I know he’s staring at me sometimes from the side and I know what he’s thinking, so I let him think. At least he knows what to think.


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