Just an hour ago... what happened? Did we really? Only an hour ago? Why can't I concentrate? What is it about him? His presence? Just an hour ago... a whole hour... only...? An hour.
An hour ago we stole another kiss. One hour ago I was finding out what it was like to kiss him back, feeling his lips and the beginning of a five-o'clock shadow... really, I did that? Kissing back, nipping his lower lip with my teeth. Tasting him fully, our tongues mating. Him? Me? Thinking so clearly that I actually remember silently telling him: You really want to know? Now you do. And boldly initiating that first intimate kiss.
I felt his arms go around me as he gave himself as fully as I was. His hand touched my lower back, under my shirt. His other hand I felt on the back of my neck. Skin on skin. Us?
It ended that day only because someone outside walked by and we heard keys jingle. I realized my hand had fallen to his leg and was resting there rather naturally. A logical place for a hand... so begins the sense of un-reality, of "did that really happen?"
Did he really nuzzle my neck, did I really hear him whisper thank you? He did. I did.
No longer was it THE KISS. There are now too many to count, there is more than just kissing. In our fantasy world, our office after everyone leaves, we can taste each other and hold hands and pretend that we don't have to go out into the real world. To distant others and bills and perpetual clamor of children. We can steal time and hold it hostage and imagine that those responsibilities don't exist. Tonight I'll go home and be the good girl, the little woman who fusses over her man. If he’s home.
I don't feel like we did anything wrong. I don't feel like we were cheating or sinning or doing anything damnable. Perhaps it's because I know that, underneath it all, we have already left our significant others. Perhaps it's because I'm going to resign, and he's being sent across the state. We'll see each other still... just differently. Away from this playful world we created for ourselves. Perhaps the intensity will fade with the distance. Perhaps not. I don't know and won't make up answers that sound right.
We talked a little, though I found that -- as usual -- words stuck in my throat. Liam spoke eloquently, telling me sweet words that made me blush somewhat. I marveled at the freedom I now felt in touching him: holding his hand, satisfying my desire to touch his arm and play my fingers along it, press the palm of my hands to his cheeks.
We both admit that this comes from some frantic need to spend as much time together as possible before he leaves. Passions and curiosities that might have gone on un-addressed, ignored by choice, exploded. We've never said a word about love. We may be romantics, but we're still realists. We like each other intensely, but love.... no. Even as we held hands, exploring the geography of palms and calluses, and spoke about the un-reality of this all, we weren't so foolish as to insist upon love.
"You know, all those oblique comments we've made... your comments about carrying baggage... that doesn't matter," he said.
I gave his a crooked little smile. "That's because I've decided to stop carrying those bags." I'm tired of them, was the simple and sincere unspoken end to that remark. It's very liberating to not be a victim. "You know, we're very good for each other here," I said softly, tracing my fingers over his. "But I still don't think that we would be out there."