Introlude

I remember that night well. 

We were sitting there on my bed, not doing anything dirty or anything like that, that part came later, but we were just talking. You had so much to say, so much you wanted to express, and I was content just lazing by you and listening to your voice. You were surprised that I got all your references; I was delighted that you was using those references. Movie quotes, lyrical analogies, stand-up material, the kind of references only someone who spent a lifetime watching, listening and enjoying the same… you know.. stuff… would understand. It’s like how it’s much easier talking to an old friend than a new one, because I don’t have to explain any of the back-story. One ‘look’, one ‘gesture’, both of us would instantly ‘get it’. It’s exactly like that with you. You have this way of telling a really detailed story as a way of getting to an obscure point, which may or may not be relevant to the story at all, but the engrossed manner in which you describe it just grabs and captivates me. 

There you were, sitting at the edge of my bed as if afraid to come closer. This adorable yet threateningly beautiful creature, here on my bed, and for the first time in a long time, I was unsure of myself. I felt like a crippled predator, so consumed by my hunger, yet unable to make a move. I take in the way you shut your eyes when you laugh, the way you smile with the right corner of your mouth, the way your brown eyes glint, both warm and dangerous.

I knew I had to taste your lips the moment you walked through my door. It was probably a good hour or two before you finally did something about it, though. We were discussing our favorite Adele songs, best way to arrange glow-in-the-dark stars, Kathy Griffin’s Gwyneth impersonation, whatever it was. You said, ‘I’m just going to do this now, because I don’t know how else to do it, and I’m afraid I’ll miss my chance.’

So then you moved closer, leaned in with your eyes closed, and in my head I’m going ‘God-fucking-damn, about time’ and my heart was going ‘God-fucking-damn you're coming closer’ and my nose was going ‘God-fucking-damn you smell so good’ and my lips were going ‘Never let go.’
 

I was hooked from that moment. We must have made out for no less than five hours before we finally fell asleep at four in the morning, lips sore as hell. I was deliriously contented, yet a seed of unease gnawed at my insides. You said that you don’t want this to end tonight, and I voiced similar sentiments. I could sense it moving dangerously close to something like the beginning of a relationship, yet we both know that I only have two months here. We came to an agreement that neither of us would hold back, and allow ourselves to be swept away by whatever witchery it is that sweeps people away when they’re in relationships.

I fell much harder for you than I initially thought I could. Two months, in and out, metaphorically, though sometimes literally. I can handle this for sure. But each time I meet you I feel like I’ve known you forever, and I just wonder how I could ever get used to not having you in my life anymore. Two months is an achievement for me, I’ve never had someone stay with me for more than two weeks, neither have I liked anyone for such an extended period of time. I’m sometimes gripped by the fear that lightning isn’t going to strike twice, that I’m being forced to prematurely cash in my one lucky ticket at the most inconvenient juncture in my life.

Three nights later you said you loved me. I asked you repeatedly if you really meant it, and when I was convinced, I uttered those words back to you. The first time I ever said it to anyone. That night we did it to Carla Bruni’s album, Comme si de rien n'était. In English it means ‘As If Nothing Had Happened’, which I thought was appropriately ironic. You had sealed yourself in my history, and there was nothing anyone can do now to rewrite that. There was no better way I could have done it the first time; it was as if I had planned the whole pornographic extravaganza.

That was the night I fell in love.