I walked from dinner with the girls in the Meatpacking district all the way to his door, pulse racing and with no music streaming through my ears. Just me and my thoughts. Though looking back, I couldn’t voice what those thoughts were. Everything was tinted with nervous anticipation. This nervousness I’m so used to feeling still baffles me as I know how well it goes between us. We go well together, but only in these fleeting moments.
The same sense of urgency that has stalked our previous encounters was buzzing through the air. The street lamps fell in slivers into the darkened room. It was quiet, it’s always quiet. Arms intertwined, whispered words, legs tangled and sheets rumpled. I didn’t remember him looking as well as he did. I do remember the scent of his cologne. I had forgotten how soft his skin was. I loved that our pulses synced up.
In the unnerving stillness, he broke it.
“I don’t know how much longer I can do this.
- What?
This, you and me and this.
- What does that mean? Should I feel bad about this?
No. I just. I want to be honest with you.
- I don’t know what that means. It doesn’t matter.”
It does matter, because I matter. He took something good and tainted it with disrespect. The least invested is always the one in control. I care(d) too much, still. I miss him. I miss a season. A season that comes with time that I will swear not to revel in and will find myself in anticipation of. This is what happens when you live the year in the hopes of fall.
“Should we hold hands?
We can’t.
But why?
Because, people will know.
Know what?
About us.
So what if they know?
It’s better when it’s a secret.
Why?
So no one can take it from us.”
- Nicole Krauss (The History of Love)
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