You and I

What you are is quite clear.

An animal; a bundle of cells; meat and bones etc. You speak out loud and you move. Your actions are frequently all too predictable to me, but despite that it’s often impossible for me to stop you. This is one of my great frustrations.

It’s all you. You stand in this awful club, holding a glass of beer, smiling, talking to her, our friend. We are the last survivors of a long night. You speak before I have the chance to consider your words. They come...from where? In any case, I can’t keep up. She too is smiling. Her face is tilted upwards towards you to bridge the difference in height. She stares at you with her eyes wide open, displaying them for you to adore. I manage now to get you to say how happy you are with your girlfriend, a clever insertion to rescue us, I think. She responds with a similar statement about her partner. Having dealt with that, we have nothing to add and the conversation ends. In the silence, I try to come up with something more to say. I’m still thinking when she suddenly grabs both of your hands, squeals “let’s dance!” and pulls you on to the empty dancefloor.

Despite the alcohol you’ve used to dampen my reactions, I am still here. I am the one worrying about you looking like a fool. No need to worry though, because her idea of dancing has a surprising twist: as soon as you arrive on the dancefloor she wraps her arms around your neck; she squeezes the side of her face against yours; she presses her fragile body against yours. She sighs loudly, straight into your ear, and you feel her little chest get smaller. You feel her breath, your breath, her heartbeat, yours. Your blood flow is rerouted. I urge you to adjust your stance to hide your arousal, but I am powerless. I cease to exist as you turn your face to hers and taste her mouth.

I remain inactive during the subsequent happenings in the desolate park. Here you are at your most active, purely animal, thrusting at the hips you hold in your hands, producing language-free sound. In the end the intensity explodes.

While you close your pants back up, I feel myself coming to the fore again. It’s still dark, but a sudden sobriety feels like floodlights.

“Obviously, that didn’t just happen,” I tell her once her milky skin is covered again.

“No,” she mumbles. She’s looking at her feet now.

“It was nice,” I add, after some consideration of what I could or should say.

She looks up again. I kiss her, a short, awkward peck on the lips.

“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”