I want to tell you about the 30 hours. I want to tell you about actions, and reactions. I want to tell you what I gave and what I took. I want to tell you about all the fucking. That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it? There were firsts, surprises, unexpected positions and results. I want to tell you about all of it, but I can’t seem to get past the last few minutes we spent together. I have to write them out of my head before I can move forward… or backward, really.

Before leaving the room, we surveyed the after-effects of our passion. I wouldn’t say we had exactly trashed the place. No, not at all. In fact, it looked very much like any other hotel room vacated by a middle-aged couple on holiday. The packing process was comfortable, quick and uneventful. We hadn’t left too much time to get ready to go. The bathtub fucking had to be accomplished first (oh yes, I must tell that story, too), as did the basking in the afterglow. We left the room with barely a sigh and a backward glance. Memories, no regrets.

Parting was delayed by desire and need and a final meal together. I have no idea what I ate. There was dessert, shared. There was also hand-holding, and kind words (his), and barely unshed tears (mine).

This is what I have to write out of my mind, though… standing in the parking lot, suitcases stowed in separate cars, excuses to linger having finally run out. We kissed, of course. We talked about the next time, so near, so far. We talked about texting safe arrivals. We talked, and then we stopped talking. I put my arms around him, and buried my face in his chest. I held him so close, so tenaciously. I think he must have held me equally tightly, because breathing felt like an unnecessary complication. Unlike the last time, or the time before, I just didn’t want to let go, so I didn’t, for long, long moments.

When I finally released my grip, he responded by doing the same, gradually. I think he watched me as I climbed in behind the steering wheel and pulled out of the parking lot, but I couldn’t look backward. There was something pulling this time… some thread connecting us that was being drawn tight, too tight, threatening to break. It didn’t break, though. It’s there, waiting to reel me back in, next month, back into his arms, into his bed, him into me.

That’s what I had to write first…. that feeling of holding on for dear life, as though I would drown if either of us let go. I didn’t drown, though, so it’s okay. I can write the rest.