sit next to me

My son, the love of my life, was having sunday croisonts with me. Chocolate almond filled croissonts. He sat across from me but wanted nothing more than to sit next to me. He is eleven years old. He asked if he could move seats. He wanted to fondle my hand caressing each finger one by one. He wanted to play with my hair, taking strands and braiding them or scooping it back off my shoulders. He wanted to snuggle up to my arm, resting his head on my shoulder. He wanted this as an addition to the coffee and croisants. For him, It added to the chocolate filling. I am his mom, he loves me.

The man that says he is not my boyfriend  doesn't consider affection. But don't be fooled by this fact. He is sweet in so many ways. He does want to widdle away his day talking to me about everything under the sun, while laying across from each other on cushions with a view. He wants to teach me deffensive chess moves while cricket casually plays on his mac in the background. He wants to listen to eclectic playlists of spotify music that range from motown to hipster bluegrass. He is content to do this naked in bed under a mosquito net. Why do I care that he is not my boyfriend? Why does all this leave me wanting? Why do I care that he doesn't hold my hand as we walk, or rarely reaches to gently touch my leg? My hair he doesn't twirl around his finger. He never leans over to kiss me. 

In the end he is content to sit across from me. Does he know that his affection doesn't measure up to an eleven year old?