Meeting at Night

It wasn't poetry, not that way, no matter how long I cooked it in this overheated mess of neurons.

It was just this - two people with a connection and no patience for the whims of chance.

And oh christ how I loved the anticipation and your preparation. All that taunting before the hour, and my nerves were on edge. I was 16 on my first date, I was 17 losing my virginity, I was 37 and finally seeing a man the way he is meant to be. I was all that wrapped up in a satin shirt and peep-toe pumps and I was yours for the taking.

That moment of indecision, of seeing it also on your face. The wine flowed and the conversation eased and you had me follow your directions just enough to humiliate myself. That egg, and that wireless remote, and not believing you'd given it to some random stranger until that random stranger returned it to our table.

Your laughter at my shocked face.

I remember all of this and more. The shirt, ripped. The tangle of our legs, how quick it was over, awkward laughter and more laughter, and more that was not so quick.

You snored. I didn't mind. It was comfortable. I allowed myself to live that moment. And it was a fine, fine moment.