We still remain silent— for a brief time— bodies spent with exhaustion, the sound of inhale and exhale left in the room as the air cools. You see— we still call each other, and we still answer the phone in a questioning “hello,” even though the name and number appears on the screen. We still agree to meet, and we’ll go out into the coldening winter air, and one of us will buzz the other’s building, knock on the other’s door, and still feel awkward walking in, even though we still have each other’s keys.

We still pretend to care about the words that fill in the time from when our eyes meet until when our lips meet, and from when our hands are at our sides until when they’re on each other. And we still let our eyes close and walls crumble to ruin while removing our clothes and surrendering to the scratchy softness of flannel sheets— the foregone conclusion slipping over us like the winter night devours the afternoon.

And we still tense up with the anticipation of the taste of skin, tongues lapping upward along slithering paths until our mouths find what they want and our hands grab-pull-squeeze-press— sometimes finding each other’s hand and fingers interlocking— as our bodies settle into familiar positions. And we still hold our breaths before the smallest shift of weight and hips angling just enough so entry is possible— potential— probable— and when it does happen, and when there is that feeling of tightness and we exhale ever so forcefully, we still forget everything outside of these few moments when all that matters is the penetration.

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Thank you.

Because it could be worse. Because in the grand scheme of things, it’s not that bad. And because I’ve been very very fortunate.

So, thank you.

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“I’m older than you,” she let slither from her lips, her body pivoting on her hip without losing contact with mine, her far knee raised— brought near— and clearing my legs; a side-by-side sit transformed into a straddle, with her arms slung around my neck— wrists crossed at the start of my spine— and weight now pressing into my lap. “But not by much,” she snickered, a flip of her neck neatly swinging the hair threatening to cover her face to one side.

“Why are you bringing it up?” I asked, hands now cradling her ass, the pull firm and the squeeze forceful enough to sink in through the jeans that clung with no space between fabric and skin. “Are you interested in splitting hairs?”

And as she leaned in, she let the hair spill off the side of her head, her eyes wide and bright, she brought her lips to mine and they touched as she breathed her answer.

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While there was enough of an argument to wait until the weekend, maybe it was the tension building throughout the week that snapped like so much still weight seated atop brittle straw that we found Thursday’s emails (ever-so creatively titled “Thursday”) bouncing back and forth transforming into plans for meeting for drinks after work, with no mention of dinner or beyond.

The rain stiffly shaken off our shoulders (shared umbrellas being a risky proposition while dodging slower foot traffic) we snatched two stools at the far end of the bar, with the thick and heavy darkness creeping in around us from the mahogany-wood surroundings; an off-putting end to a gloomy and drenched week. And it was soon too dark for me to see (and thus playfully tease her about) the pink and yellow-polka-dotted Wellingtons on her feet, and for her to accurately make out the subtle expressions on my face (which were intended to charmingly take the sting off those jabs at the rubberized footwear) that we escaped, dragging only a mild buzz in tow, to the nearest over-commercialized and over-illuminated coffee chain establishment where the humidity and caffeine-laden sweaty air clung to the inside surface of the wall of windows, clouding the view of the street in a fog both thick and musty, with the air conditioning only creating a distinctly depressive chill that a mouthful of poorly Anglicized (and arguably butchered) Italian words did little to fend off.

And still, or yet (and maybe because of all this) the closing clauses of carefree conversation drew our faces closer in tighter and tighter spirals, the words themselves waning in importance to the flirtatious smirk slung from curling corner to corner of her lips, until it was the inevitable feathering weight of fingertips on each other’s hands and the soft but purposeful bump of knees under the table that gave way to more deliberate actions: the coordinated quick rise from the seats (and the hawkish, sly swoop into our still-warm seats by another standing-but-presently-sitting couple), a gathering of things and disposing of the empty coffee cup waste as we climbed into a cab with her quickly barking cross streets.

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The warning was that there have been actions far more drastic than this before, that I shouldn’t freak out, and that it’s just something different— all breathed in a flurry of words as I closed the door behind me. She stood close— too close— and I leaned back a little, not in repulsion but because this view was far too near-sighted, as if a few inches would make a difference— and it sort of did— my hand drawn almost instinctively to the flip of hair skirting across her brow, veiling her eyes, and playing with the side of her face. It was short— no, just shortly cropped— a playful-yet-feminine haircut in the place of her long, chestnut locks that used to fall to the middle of her back. It could still be drawn into the tiniest tiny-tight pigtail— if she really had to do it— with the help of clips, pins, and a hairband, I would have to guess— and the hints of dark brown waves— several shades darker now, as if all of the sun-bleached strands were the first to be cut— peeked through where the hair was longest, from crown to jaw. But all I could care about, at that moment, was to hold the hair, hand still against her head after tucking it behind her ear, and to look back into her eyes, hearing her tell me that hair grows back— as if it wasn’t enough to appreciate her now, with what’s left, and determine that there wasn’t anything missing at all.

an errant sideward glance
with the soft press of lips
together secrets left
lurking between us still
and what you say, that way
you could ruin my day