I remember the first time I saw her.

I remember her height; she towered over the school group. I remember her smile; she tilted her head, both confused and curious. I remember her eyes; they locked on me and sent my heart pounding.

Full disclosure...I thought she had me confused with someone else. But there was no one else, and as the school group moved on, and she moved closer, my assumption was quickly disproved.

After all, what were the odds?

What were the odds that this woman—this tall, intelligent, French woman—would cast her attention in my direction, would seek me out as an object of affection?

What were the odds?

But I suppose odds have nothing to do with love. There is no rule, there is no law, there is no science, only the acceptance of chaos.

And so, even from then, from the first time we spoke, I knew…I had done nothing to deserve her.

Our meeting had been unlikely, our attraction even more so, and the probability that we would start a long term relationship? It seemed almost unbearably remote.

I remember the day she left.

I thought the numb feeling in my gut was a symptom of relief. I thought I was finally rid of the anxiety, of the fear that she would leave. I thought my days of wondering at the odds were finally over.

It was a strange sort of relief though, as if I had cut off an entire arm to wipe out the possibility of paper cuts.

I remember many days in between.

They filled the space between her arrival and her departure; days of sunshine, days of rain, days of sleep, days of coffee, days of books, papers and dirty dishes, days of new shoes and old shirts, days of morning fog, days of setting stars, days of laughter and days of quiet.

I forgot many days, too—forgetfulness being a byproduct of domesticity.

And let's not even bring up the days I missed completely, the days when I was far away, doing research, crawling on my hands and knees on the damp forest floor of the Amazonian mountains.

Those days—those weeks—stretched on, and I can never know what she did then, or how she felt, or what she looked like, or who she talked to. I can't know how she passed her time; alone in the apartment, or out on the town. I always imagined her as a busy body, her days full with lunch appointments, long lectures, and office hours.

I had constructed these memories of her. I realize that now. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I remember the day she arrived in San Francisco.

I found her asleep on my bed. She had let herself into my apartment—our apartment—because I had been held up at school.

She had laid herself out, face down and arms spread wide. She snored lightly, not stirring when I entered the room.

I stood in the doorway. I watched her ribs rise and fall. I counted the seconds between breaths. I noticed the length of her limbs in comparison to the length of my bed.

A perfect fit, I thought.

I smelled shampoo and bodywash on the air, and I knew that she had used my shower and my towel, maybe even my razor against her skin.

I stepped to the bed. I sat on the edge. I pulled the thick duvet away from her face, only to reveal a bare shoulder, a bare neck, a bare breast. And still, she didn't stir.

I wondered how long she had been waiting for me before she gave in to her jetlag induced exhaustion.

Her damp curls left dark spots on the pillow. I brushed them from her face and leaned close enough to kiss her ear.

"Are you awake?" I whispered.

She rolled into my arms and her hair spilled across her face, revealing a rosy cheek, a soft scowl, a scrunched up nose and a half-opened eye. But then her face disappeared against my cheek. She hugged me with what little strength she had in her tired arms.

"Oui," she mumbled.

"Are you sure?"

She looked up. She blinked with heavy eyelids, then her eyes went wide.

"Yes!" she said, laughing and hiding her face again.

"What's so funny?"

She peeked out at me from behind the pillow, her eyes smiling and glistening with tears.

"What's so funny?" I said again.

I reached beneath the blanket. I found her naked arm. I wrapped my fingers around it, grabbing her flesh, perhaps too hard, but she didn't pull away. I had a great need to touch her, to hold her still, to test her physicality against my own.

And what a delight it was!

Yes, you are solid. Yes, you are here.

"Non," she said. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

In their delight, my fingers found her ribs and the underside of her arm. They moved quickly over her skin, tickling here and touching there. She squirmed and pushed away from me, until finally, I relented, and she was left bare from the midriff up.

My eyes landed on her exposed breasts, which bounced with little giggles. She watched my mouth, then pulled the blanket up shyly.

I reached a hand out. I stopped her.

"No," I said. "No, don't."

She laughed again, pulling harder on the blanket. I could not help but laugh with her.

"What's so funny?" I asked again.

I climbed over her, pushing her hands up over her head, pinning them on the pillow and pulling the blanket down to her waist. She giggled beneath me, her hips curling under, her stomach flexing with joy. With her eyes closed, she turned her head to the side, exposing her long neck.

I moved my hand down, suddenly filled with a perverse desire to wrap my fingers around her neck, to feel it in my palm just as I had felt her arm.

I did this gently—slowly. I ran my thumb under her chin and up over her mouth. She turned her face into my hand, until we were eye to eye.

"What's so…"

But her eyes were serious and soft, her mouth turned down against her will.

"...funny?"

"Nothing," she said, wiping a tear from her eye. "It's just exhaustion...and relief."

She pulled me down to her chest then, holding my face against her bare skin. I knew that I should be quiet and still, but her fingertips moved over the back of my neck, and her nipple stiffened against my cheek, and when I blinked, I heard the sound of eyelashes against flesh.

Relief.

"I'm happy," she said.

"Me, too."

And scared.

I remember how it felt, to push inside her.

It was my tongue first, pushed deep into her mouth until she moaned and spread her legs. Yes, she spread her legs as she tilted her head back, her mouth pressed against mine, waiting for me to taste her again.

I remember how easy it was, to slip right between her legs, to align my hips with her hips, to fall into a rhythm, though it had been so long since I had seen her.

Exhausted from her travels, she was content to lay back against the pillows. But she wrapped her arms around my back, her hands drifting up my neck and down my spine.

I was exhausted, too, but that didn't stop me from pulling my own dress off over my own head, or from kicking my nylons away in a few graceless gestures. That didn't stop me from crawling right over her, hovering there long enough for her to take my breast into her mouth, then settling my hips down once more between her legs.

We kissed—several long, hungry kisses—kisses that we had collected and carried around like souvenirs since the last time our lips met. I gave her soft kisses, melancholy kisses, kisses that filled the silence. She gave me wet kisses, sloppy kisses, kisses like little invitations to fill the space.

And in between these kisses, our hips moved. She pulled her legs up suddenly, tilting her pelvis forward, until...there! I felt her—wet and throbbing—right against the front of my own crotch. The sensation was enough to send me forward in one quick, deep thrust.

She gasped. So did I. I think we were both surprised.

I had spent months thinking that I knew her, that I knew what she wanted, what pleased her, what got her off. And here we were, the first night back together, and already we had stumbled into something new. The discovery aroused me.

I pulled my hips away, then thrust against her once more, certain that I was hitting her right where she liked it, right against her clit. She gasped again.

But then...she reached down, grabbed my ass, and pulled me toward her.

"Kiss me," she whispered.

And I did...I did.

I kissed her again and again—with my mouth, with my body, with my hips—until she shivered beneath me, digging her nails into my back and sighing.

I could not take the sound of it anymore. I leaned back onto my knees. I reached over to the lamp. I fumbled to turn it on.

The light filled the room—a sleepy, romantic light.

She covered her eyes with her arm, and peeped out at me.

"What are you doing? Why did you turn the light on?"

"I wanted to see you."

And it was true, I wanted to see her, not just her shadows, but the opposite of her shadows, too.

I wanted to see her skin, lucid and bright in the light. I wanted to see her lips, pink from my love, and her cheeks, pink from her passion. I wanted to see her nipples, erect from arousal, and the goosebumps that crawled across her abdomen—little trails that hinted at her inner sensations, little trails that I followed with my fingertips.

I leaned over her. I took a nipple into my mouth. She tilted back into the pillows, even as she arched her back, pressing, pressing into me, and pulling my head down with both hands.

My hand traced her trails, all the way down past her navel, all the way down to her coarse hair. I paused there for a moment, noticing the rise of her pelvis, pressing my palm down against the soft flesh just above her pubic bone.

This, too, she pushed up toward me.

I didn't hesitate. I let my fingers slide down, down.

What I found...it raked a groan from my mouth.

"You're wet," I said.

"Yes."

"You came already?"

"Yes."

Another groan, another rush.

I leaned back, dizzy when I looked down at her. Her eyelids were heavy with pleasure. Her thighs were red from our previous rhythm. I spread her legs wide so that I could see her clearly. She watched and bit her lips expectantly.

In the soft light, I saw her wetness. I saw the shadow and the sparkle.

I remember how it felt to push inside her.

To fall over her. To move above her, inside her—inside. And at the same time, to expand. Dizzy with desire, my hands moved on their own. And my mouth, dipping down. Taste and touch. Taste and touch. Until my face and fingers were covered in her love.

I remember the rough. I remember the smooth.

But these things blend together in retrospect.

Just like the days. Just like the months and moments that spin around in my mind. And the spinning—it never stops, because the only time I was ever still was when she held me in her gaze.

Yes, I remember her eyes, closed and turned away in pleasure, or sometimes turned away in sorrow. I remember grasping at her arms, sometimes in lust, sometimes in desperation. I remember her back as she lay face down on the bed. I remember her back as she walked out the door.

I remember the shadows, and I remember their opposite.

But most of all, I remember the way she slept that night, her face pressed against the pillow, her cheeks soft and her mouth relaxed with the bottom lip turned out, just like a child's. I remember the way she slept, like she had never known anxiety, like she never would again.

I remember laying next to her, my nose close to her nose, my hand wrapped around her hand.

Most of all, I remember the relief. I thought it would last forever—that momentary peace.

I guess I was naive.