If You Could Call It That

I've spent a week trying to describe it. I say "I", because I'm brave (or at least trying to be). But it defies description, and I'm starting to suspect it's because it all worked out so well. It wasn't like real life, where plot is sparse and erratic. It wasn't like writing stories, when you can add the exact right amount of conflict to make it believable. It wasn't like plays or movies or conversations, when you can feel the push and the pull between two people, sense the tides, the gives, the tells. At first, it was more like a dance between two willing and knowledgeable partners, except neither person wanted to admit to dancing, so they pretended that they really only came here to enjoy the music and wander about the room in an organized manner. It was more like we were circling, arms outstretched, refusing to touch. We knew the pieces would fit, but we were wary to construct. So I seduced the moment, slipping one block perfectly onto the next, everything working so hard so we wouldn't have to.

It was almost effortless, but only because we needed it to be. I did not have to push or be pulled. We floated aimlessly until we met in the middle, and then suddenly it was only that, only us, only breathing, until we retracted and waited for the next collision, detached in the presence of intimacy.