It's dark in this room but not too dark to see, yet you do not close your eyes – you don't want to miss any of this, the dance of shadows on his face, the gleam of his eyes, the movement of his silhouette in front of the night sky. There is no way you could mistake his body for a woman's anyway, not while your hands are roaming over a flat chest, limbs with too much bone and too little flesh. Long fingers entwine with yours, briefly, and your doubts are gone and the nervousness remains, for other reasons. Curtains in front of a high window; it looks domestic and doesn't suit him, but right now you couldn't imagine a sight more perfect.
He is so old and you are so young, but as you lower him to the bed you wonder if you might not be the experienced one here. It would have made you happy at any other time. Now it makes you feel lost and slightly helpless. You fingers tremble but do not stop as they run down his chest, dark hands against skin that shimmers pale in the weak moonlight. It looks good. It looks right. You can not take your eyes off it until he touches your face softly, and presses a kiss to your lips that tastes like lost seconds and the light of the stars.
The universe has shrunken to the size of this room that contains all you need and want and have. You're lost but you're happy and that's wrong – but is it really? You're cheating on the girl who should be your girlfriend with the man she wants to cheat on you with and you can not tell if that's poetic justice or simple irony.
His long finger slide up your back, your shoulders, come to rest in your so very short hair and you let yourself be pulled close, on top of him, and do not think of her at all.
The night stretches on, forever.
November 1, 2007