Disclaimer: If I owned it, House, M.D. wouldn't be nearly as genius as it is.
If someone was to ask me if I was in love, I would deny it. Fiercely. And I would be telling the truth, because this wasn't love – isn't love. I have been in love before, and this is nothing like it.
No, love is much more complex than this. True love, I mean; not just love of things like soup or fish sticks or ice cream sandwiches or stamp-collecting, but real, true, pure, can't-live-a-day-without you love. I'd been there, and I'd been back.
This, in staggeringly sharp contrast, is blind, raging, carnal, primal, unadulterated lust. Love is feelings and emotions and caring about what the other person thinks, but this – this is just night and heat and skin and sweat.
But it doesn't exist in the light. In the beginning, like the boogieman of my childhood, it would shrivel up into the back of my mind in the daytime, nearly nonexistent, almost a figment of my imagination. There were to be no references made, not even the subtlest hints in the very smallest subtexts of our speech.
As the hours of the day would progress, neither of us acknowledging anything out of the ordinary, the actions of the night before would begin to seem unreal. By the end of the day, I'd be almost positive that I'd dreamed the whole exchange.
By the middle of the night, I'd have been proven wrong.
Now, I know better than to doubt it. It's like a siren's call, a haunting tune that the body can't help but be drawn to. It's unstoppable. It never fades anymore.
We don't speak. We don't whisper. In fact, there is no room for noise. The darkness is stifling, crushing, leaving little space for anything other than heavy breathing and the sound of body against body. That's all we need.
We don't take time to learn each other. It's not about learning. It's almost not even about pleasure, though I can't deny that I don't derive quite a bit of pleasure from it, sick and twisted though it may be. It's about…need, I think. I almost don't know what it's about, because it's certainly not about me. It's about him, if anything. Him and his need and his bed and our lust.
We don't think. The simplicity of lust is what makes this work, if you can call it working. Thinking would complicate matters, and neither of us could handle complication.
We don't speak, we don't learn, we don't think, we hardly even dare to feel, but above all, we do not look.
Never once have we made eye contact. The dark is when everything moves and anything could happen, when the moon distorts reality and the shadows overpower common sense. Never looking each other in the eye means we could still be a dream. Never looking each other in the eye means we're not making a real mistake. Never looking each other in the eye means we could be with anyone we wanted to be with, means that it's easier not to speak or learn or think when you've tricked yourself into wondering who you're really touching. It can't be love if you're not sure who you're in love with, and it can't be a mistake if you're not sure who you're messing up with.
The electric blue I know I'd see would make it far too real, and realization is something I can't afford.
If someone was to ask me if I was in love, I would deny it. Fiercely. And I would be telling the truth.
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