The door was open. There was a binary choice waiting to be made. He could either walk through it, or he could walk away. He could either release what had been crawling around his brain for the last few weeks-- the daydreams, the sleepless nights, the disgust staring back from the bathroom mirror -- or keep it relegated to the more secluded parts of his mind that only flare up after a bout with insomnia or few drinks too many -- or both.

The liberation was inviting. Everything would be in the open. She would know where both she and he stood. The cards would be on the table. She too would have a binary choice -- take it or leave it. As inviting as the liberation seemed to be from the daze of insomnia or the haze of mineral spirits, there was still, however, during moments of coherence and sobriety, when it was equally horrifying.

Ultimatums were not his nature. He always felt much more subdued, more measured and reasonable. Ultimatums, especially in this case, were simply too dramatic and emotional -- two things he prided himself on being able to keep in check, almost to a fault. He'd never dealt well with finality in much of anything, and the idea of propagating it himself was foreign at best. The thought of that much power vested in one statement was unnerving, and of course there was always the chance that, when faced with the decision of 'take it or leave it,' she would opt for the latter.

He rolled over to watch her sleeping. The streetlight pierced the blinds, drowning the room in a dull orange haze. Her legs were curled up and she was tightly wrapped in the blanket, it pulled to her chin. She'd felt him shift in her sleep and had subconsciously nuzzled into his chest.

He was such a sucker for pretty girls, and if nothing else, she was certainly that. He ran his fingers through her hair, twisting the strands around his finger.

"I'll tell her in the morning," he thought to himself as he stared at the wall and gently brushed her cheek. He knew that wasn't true. He chuckled to himself and rolled his eyes at his own weakness. As much as he felt strong enough to say it in the middle of the night with her asleep right next to him, he knew full well that when the sunlight crept into the room and she opened her stunning eyes, all bets were off.

The problem was, in the morning, he was no longer going to be the strong, resolved man he was at night. But she was still going to be the pretty girl.