I enter the door of his house at seven on the dot. It’s our first date, and we only have two hours.
His study is full of books, of posters, scenery of a shared life. I wonder which ones are his and which are hers. But I don’t have much time for questions, because we’re already kissing and his scent becomes all that matters.
At a quarter past seven, I have already come twice.
Satisfied for the moment, we begin the task of talking about our lives, interrupting each other with full laughs, with shouts of “Me too!,” always touching, naked and pressed together, simultaneously hungry for and drunk upon each other, discovering our souls, mapping our bodies. The decision that changed everything, the first memory of childhood, skin white and smooth, a hidden mole, the smell of new sweat.
May sun shines through the window, and I’m so happy to have met him.
His phone rings once, twice, three times. “I’m going to have to pick up, it’s my girlfriend,” he says. He gets up to take the call, and I wait in his bed. The bed he shares with her.
“Say hi for me,” I call to him, loudly.
“I’m at home with Wen, she says hi,” I hear him say. He hangs up and looks at me, smiling. “She also says hi.” He comes back to the bed.
We still have one hour, and sometimes an hour in a spring afternoon is all the time in the world.
After, he walks me home, hand in hand.