Once in a lifetime you meet that one individual. That one person capable of enveloping your senses, and rendering the outside world irrelevant, if only for a while. To begin with it was not romantic in the slightest. It was the gravitation of one lonely individual to another. Fuelled by a sense of longing. A desire to be held. A need to be appreciated.
To an outsider, it would have seemed to have been nothing more than sex. But really, it was never just sex.
He was a married man. A married man who was unhappy in his relationship. But still, a married man. In the beginning, the guilt pulsed through my veins. Everywhere I looked, there was a reminder that this man was already taken- spoken for. I would be sick just thinking about it. As though I had betrayed a younger version of myself who had promised herself that she would never fall for a married man.
He was someone who I'd never even considered before. When we met, I was blinkered. My vision firmly on a younger, more exotic man. But this younger, more exotic man, though beautiful, intelligent and brilliant, was not a kind one. He was a man responsible for brutally making me realise that nothing would ever happen between us.
It was then that I noticed the other man. The perfect man- with an age gap that my parents would thoroughly disapprove of.
He was so alone, like I was. In a manner I don't quite remember, we began to talk. We spoke for hours about anything. He could sense my loneliness as much as I could sense his. Then, one evening, words turned into actions. Talking turned to kissing, and kissing in turn became sex.
Sex. It always used to be a word that made me cringe. It seemed like a harsh, vulgar word. I liked to call it "making love" instead. But eventually, I began to question the phrase. Had I ever really made love? Was there ever a person who I had loved? A person who had loved me? I came to the conclusion that the answer to all three questions was a resounding no. It was from that moment, I decided love was a word that was over used and under appreciated. Sex was the word I needed to use. Suddenly, it seemed to be a more appropriate word. To the point. Making love was something to be reserved.
We certainly did not make love. We kissed. Kisses turned towards the jaw, towards collar bones. Hands roamed under shirts, clothing removed. It was an experience more intimate than anything else I'd ever experienced before.
Soon enough, we became inseparable. Became my best friend. He knew everything about me. I knew just as much about him.
He told me he was going to try again with his wife. It wasn't surprising. I could smell her on his skin, on his clothes. The distinctive sweet perfume which clashed with his musky aftershave.
I told him I was happy for him, avoiding his eyes. He was about to go on holiday with her.
When he was with her, I found someone else. The sex was weaker. He didn't want conversation. He wanted a relationship. It was not the same, and more than once the wrong name rolled off of my tongue.
Three weeks after our parting, I received a text.
"I miss you."
In a minute of blind panic, I deleted it. I wanted nothing from him.
But I was still weak. I ached to see him again, only half heartedly repressing the desire for a relationship with him.
When he returned from his holiday, he called me. I answered the phone with shaking hands. Hearing his voice on the other side made my stomach do a leap.
"You were all I could think about" the tinny version of his voice told me as I hung up the phone. The vain part in me approved. I had always wanted to be wanted by somebody. It was a vain, pathetic desire, but nonetheless, one that I couldn't repress feeling happy about.
He came into my flat.
He kissed me. More urgent than ever. Not waiting for permission. I enjoyed the way he took charge. The kiss told me more than words ever could.
I fell asleep in his arms. Secure and content, enveloped in a post-coital sense of euphoria. The holiday seemed to have confirmed things. In a manner of weeks he was divorced. Somewhere along the way, among the conversations and the sex, we became a couple. We were not in love, but dangerously close to it. Our friends weren't aware yet, but that was our next objective.
Then, something happened.
Something that made my skin itch. He believed that the young, exotic man- one of his friends- to be guilty of something. Something sickening. Something that even I knew couldn't possibly be true.
My respect for him went. I scrubbed my skin, trying to remove the slightest trace of him from me, through almost any means. It made me resent him more.
But then something else happened.
I helped the young, exotic man fake his own death. It was something I was not proud of. But somehow, my own secret seemed even more unforgivable.
It's fascinating. When an individual feels their worst, they run to the person they crave to be with. I ran to him. I was broken, plagued with secrecy and repressed emotions. Yet somehow, he saw me for who I was.
He promised me through my sobs that any secrets were okay. Not desirable, but okay. He held me and told me he would forgive me. He told me he would always be around. He told me that he would always love me. He shifted awkwardly as I processed his words.
"Love."
Suddenly, it was crystal clear. Neither of us were saints, but neither were we evil.
For the first time in my life, I said it. I said it, and meant it.
"I love you, Greg."