We are listening to Young Statues on his bed. It is sweltering outside, I am taking an occasional sip from the huge water bottle, he brought coke and ice tea. Sweat is running across my forehead despite the cooled drinks. I wipe it away with my right hand, then regard the drops on my hand, glistening. I want to hear that one song on repeat, but he disapproves of such a thing and urges me to enjoy the record in its entirety. I shake my head playfully and re-adjust the shirt, clinging to my body from the heat and sweat and excitement. Today we are slow and lazy, because we have time. A rare concept in this affair. What is this notion of leisure and patience that you speak of? We have other lives to fit into, other people to appease and be our best selves for. For once, just for now, we can instead be quiet and our silent, slow, uneventful selves. He sets the empty ice tea bottle on the floor. I move a pillow from under my back and lean against the wall. The song is called âAthensââ. We are not young anymore. He moves back on the covers and leans against the wall as well, our arms slightly touching. With âSpacismâ he sings along âI could have died on the front of your lawnâ. I laugh and when my arm moves it sticks to his skin. We have melted together. We are strangers connected by drops of water only. I look at him. He leans over and kisses me, harsh and demanding. I lick the sweat from his upper lip, then take off my shirt while ripping at his pants impatiently. It is so hot. Thereâs some traffic noise underneath his window, not much, the town is small. He loses his clothes, I lose mine, it is still too warm and the rhythmic movements are more difficult when sticking together like this, then alternatively slipping off of each other. I have to laugh out more than once, and he hushes me by pressing his mouth on mine. Panting, we roll off each other. I towel off with a blanket, then look for my shirt and underwear. It is too warm with them on, but I feel too exposed without them. I take a long drink from my water bottle, and pour some over my wrists to cool off. The recordâs been running along, I like âBumble Beeâ and hum along. He moves to the edge of the bed as well, a safe distance between us now. I donât want him to go away, but I change my mind daily about this topic. I am not reliable in this affair. The sunâs getting ready to set for the day, I know weââll have one night left. He has cancelled plans specifically, we are not to be seen together in public. âCan I listen to âKeep it darkâ again?â I ask as I am already manipulating the stereo accordingly. âSure. Iâll grab something to eat.â I settle in front of the computer and google his name. I find nothing new, nothing that I didnât recently also see on my own computer before deleting the search history. He returns with sandwiches, some fruit and some chocolate bars, one of which I grab as my first course of choice. âDo you want to see a movie later?â he asks me. I nod, the mouth full of chocolate, full of sweet sweet crunch. Because really, what else are we supposed to do? I secretly set âKeep it darkâ to repeat and point out the genius of this song yet again. He laughs, he has heard me praise it a million times already. We eat, drink, watch a movie and stop it in the middle to have sex again. It wasnât a great movie anyway.
I set an alarm to very early, still night even, because he has to be at work early in the morning and I have a train to catch to be at my own work in the afternoon. In my own life. We both hate the early morning and I am hardly awake but with an urgency that stems from sadness (or maybe relief?) we sleep together again, half-asleep and half-conscious of being careful not to leave any visible traces of each other on the other personââs body. The second alarm, the one not to be ignored, goes off.
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