This is really, truly, nothing important. It was a rainy day.
It's raining. I can hear the soft patter as the wind pushes the rain against your glass windows. From the beach, the sounds of the surge rise and fall with the waves, loud then quiet, quiet then loud. The room comes into focus as my eyes open from pretend sleep.
And here I am again.
The first time it was alcohol. Both of us pleasantly inebriated and happily unsupervised in the basement of a house party. I remember thinking that I should have been angry at the dusty orange couch, the threadbare blanket, the concrete floor, at the ordinariness of it all. I should have been angry at you. I was supposed to want roses and candles and silk.
But when I looked up from that dusty couch with your limp body on top of me and the single light bulb flickering overhead, I realized that all the poetry and songs and prayers are just words. There is no transcendence, only skin and sweat, friction and heat. Over in minutes, no earth-shattering revelations. It's not meaningful; it's just science, physiology – muscles stretching, blood moving, hips gyrating. There was a cold draft and your body was warm on mine.
I remember you driving me home, your hand over mine in my lap. I remember thinking that nothing had changed. You didn't look different in my eyes. I didn't feel different. It was the same highway, the same front door. The same school in the morning and the same homework at night.
And two weeks later, on the couch in your living room with a fire burning, it was the same friction, the same sweat, the same pushing and rocking.
Now I let the sheet fall, exposing one breast as I roll onto my back. The ceiling above is mottled with shadows from the windows. Your walls are bare, not a single poster or even a trophy shelf. Nothing stands out in this room. The slate color of the bedspread matches the extra duvet you keep in the closet. I remember its scratchy texture from the last time.
You walk back into the room, unashamedly naked, running a hand through your hair with one hand and carrying two glasses of water with the other. I stare blankly as your thigh muscles contract with each step and your abdomen stays solid. You think I'm ogling you.
I blink and hear thunder approach the coast. You walk around the bed, leaving me staring at the empty doorway. Just over the point of my toe sticking out from under the sheet I can see the dark hallway flash brightly. The TV is on in your grandfather's bedroom, although the volume must be mute.
You put the glasses on the nightstand, pull back the sheet, and lay down. I let you move my body, pulling my back against your chest. Gently, softly, your fingers smooth over my hip, as though touching something precious. I wrap my arm around yours and you lower your head against the back of my neck.
I realize that you think you are in love me, though thank god you've never said it. You think I love you, too. You're convinced that you know me better than I know myself. So sure that my heart has changed sides in a battle my mind is still fighting. You may know my body better than me. You may know which hollows invoke moans and which curves prefer tongue to fingers. But you cannot claim to know my soul.
I think about getting ready to leave, wondering if you'll offer to drive me home or if I should call a cab. I don't have an umbrella, so I'll have to ask to borrow one of yours. It's cold outside and the rain will bring fog and flooded sidewalks. But it's warm here. So I lean back into you and you sigh in contentment.
