A Brief Tale of Passion

We lie there, facing one another. One of my hands is lazily intertwined with hers, the other runs along her side, exploring a multitude of tiny cuts and scrapes. When I’ve finished mapping the terrain, I switch from geography to astronomy, slowly tracing circles and stars on her skin. Her breath is soft against my face. I am struck by the incredible novelty of sleeping with someone I actually like, and feel a twang of remorse. What will she think if she ever finds out what I’m really like?

We’re standing on the balcony, hours ago. I offer her a cigarette and she accepts. “Parliament Lights?” She makes a face of mock disgust and smokes it anyway. She’s wearing a loose turquoise sweater over a black button-down. Her hair is blonde, with the faded remnants of a months-old pink dye job coloring the ends. She’s a mess. She’s beautiful. “So what do you do?” she asks me.
“I’m a writer. Fictions, mostly. I make things up.”
“I don’t like those,” she says, taking a drag. “Made up things. I like things that are real.”
“Well, all good fiction has an element of truth to it. After all, everything that can happen has happened, somewhere. I believe that truth is beauty, and beauty truth.” She smiles.
“That’s very pretty.”
“So are you,” I think. But I don’t say it.

He puts his hands on her shoulders. She tenses up. He says something I don’t hear. Five of us are walking back to the house. The party is winding down. As people leave, he mentally calculates which girl is most likely to sleep with him and settles on her. I’d be jealous, or aggressive, but I saw the look she gave me when she lit that last cigarette. He doesn’t have a chance. He puts his stupid farmers’ hat on her head, a lame attempt to mark his territory. She accepts it out of politeness.
We reach the door, and she hesitates. Her cigarette is not yet out.
“I’ll wait out here with you,” I say. She puts the hat on my head. “I don’t want this,” I say and put it back on her head. I give the brim a few playful tugs this way and that, and she sways as I pull. I pull her close, so close that our foreheads are almost touching. She doesn’t resist. The moment is now. I kiss her, lightly at first, then with more force. She puts one hand on the small of my back, and another on the back of my head. I place my hand against her cheek and pull her in for another kiss. The hat falls to the ground, and we leave it there when we go inside.

We shift positions. Now I’m on my back, arm around her shoulder, her head on my chest. The weight of it is comforting and lovely. The bulges of her stomach and breasts press against me as we share warmth. Soon I’ll have to leave and catch the train back downtown. Soon, but not yet. She moans something softly, and I kiss her forehead.

We’re in an upstairs bedroom, illuminated only by soft moonlight. Both of us are undressed from the waist up. She pushes me down onto my back, and I sit up to catch her with a kiss.
“Is something wrong?” she asks.
“What? No, no, nothing’s wrong. Why, what’s up?”
“You’re trembling,” she says.

I’m discussing religion with a highly driz Bard student who does not refute my description of his school as “hipsters in the woods.” It’s his birthday, which is why we are partying tonight.
“Jesus never talks about hell, you know,” I say. “He talks about heaven a lot, of course. Heaven is to live in God’s presence. Surrounded by God’s presence. Originally, hell had nothing to do with torture. Hell was simply the absence of God’s presence. And if you look at it that way, you could say we’re already living in hell.”
“I need another drink,” he says and stands. She walks up to me.
“How long are you in town for?” She asks. She’s already been told about me.
“Just tonight and tomorrow. I’m leaving on Wednesday.” I say.
“That’s not very long, is it?” Her slight British accent makes it come out “is eh?” and is extremely attractive.
“Enough time for tonight,” I say.

She shifts again. Now we’re nestled like spoons. One arm is underneath her, and it lightly grips her fingertips. She’s so soft and warm and I am happy. She sleeps, her breath soft and steady, her heartbeat slow and even. Life is absolutely still, and sunlight peeks in through the window shade. It’s almost 7:30. I’ve been up for 24 hours. I drift away, holding a girl beautiful in ways delightfully her own.
I don’t throw away the condom wrapper until I get back to Philadelphia.