They would meet.

There would be sweet nothings whispered recklessly and carried away by the heavy, sultry summer breeze; clothes would vanish so their bodies could be together, completely; hair would be fondled; lips and necks would be bruised by ravenous kisses; then there would be the burning penetration; crudely lecherous grunts and moans and gasps and pants and whimpers, and eventually, screamed declarations of love would jar the silence as they orgasm in a manifestation of bliss. And it would be over.

He would pull out and they would vulgarly wrap their sweat-slicked bodies over one another. Despite the stifling heat, they would be perfectly contented for those few gaspingly beautiful post-sex seconds.

Then reality would tingle its way back into their minds and they would be crushed by their guilt; which made her silently weep; and made him stare at the ceiling nonchalantly, and decay within.

They would hastily readminister their clothing and go their separate ways; neither sparing so much as a glance at the other; willing death, just to absolve the guilt.

Yet they would always return.