It was close to 2 am by the time we pulled up to my home. We sat holding hands in the dark of the front seats; the rain scarring our faces as they dripped down the front window. I just wanted to pause this borrowed time.
We made our way up the stairs, my hand fumbling at the door as I felt him grow closer to me. He swept my hair away off the back of my dress and his beard tickled the nape of my exposed neck. We couldn’t get inside fast enough.
This was really happening.
We barely made it through the door before bags were flung on the floor and he laid me back on the couch. Kneeling before me he placed his head in my lap. I rubbed my fingers over the fine soft fuzz of his shaved head. “I’m so sorry,” he said quietly into my dress, “I’m so very sorry.”
Rubbing the back of his neck,“Why are you sorry? You’re HERE.”
He lifted his face up to mine, grabbed me by the waist and pulled me down off the couch onto the floor with him. “Because,” he whispered, “I should have shown up. Every time I came to town hoping to cross paths, I should have just SHOWN UP.”
His hands reached behind my back and untied my dress, hands shaking as they did 20 years ago when he couldn’t get my bra off fast enough. He leaned into me, kissing my collarbone, my neck. His lips took mine and we were hungry all over again. Hungry for each other and for the time we’d missed while living two separate lives.
I could hear our hearts galloping towards each other; feel the heat burning in my ears, my flushed cheeks and chest.
There would never be enough time to say everything our bodies had been deprived of.
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