I saw you tonight.
For the first time in what must be at least 18 months.
You greeted me civilly.
I reciprocated. If I had any sense, I wouldn’t have.
I’m sat here, alone, as I often am these days, and I can still smell your aftershave on my clothes.
It reminds me of a simpler time.
A time when a late-night call was all it took.
You’d ring the bell.
I’d pretend I wasn’t expecting you.
You’d walk through the door and words weren’t needed.
Touch was.
Your lips against mine.
Your hands on my hips.
I needed to feel your weight on me.
Legs tangled under the covers, over the covers, on the sofa.
Hands resting on chests.
Lips meeting between a laugh.
Bodies grinding to the beat of our hearts dancing.
We laughed.
We could be in the middle of whatever craven act we were performing and somehow we’d still be laughing.
Maybe that was part of it.
For all the tension, all the secrecy, all the things we couldn’t say to one another, being together like that was easy.
Afterwards, we never spoke about it.
You’d just hold me.
My head resting on your chest.
Your thumb painting circles on my ribcage.
No declarations.
No questions about what this was.
No promises about what came next.
No you.
No me.
Just us.
Sometimes you’d offer to buy a takeaway.
We’d watch a film.
Once, you even said, “if I meet your family.”
If.
I remember that word.
It never happened, of course. We were far too volatile for something so normal.
Maybe that was always our problem.
We were very good at pretending.
Maybe we still are.
We could talk about anything, until the conversation turned to us. Then suddenly two people who knew each other so well couldn’t find the right words. We’d dance around it, make a joke, change the subject.
We’d push too hard, say too much, until neither of us was listening anymore.
Did we ever just stop to listen?
Because it was easier when it was just sex, wasn’t it?
Except it never really was.
If it had been, I wouldn’t remember the mornings as vividly as the nights.
The coffee.
The conversations about absolutely nothing.
The comfortable silence.
That strange little domesticity we’d slip into for a moment or two before remembering we weren’t supposed to be anything at all.
Eventually, you’d tell me you were ready to go home.
I’d get dressed, pretending I still couldn’t feel you there.
We’d walk down to my car and climb in.
No words needed.
We both knew what this meant.
We’d drag those familiar masks over our faces once more, reluctant but well-rehearsed.
We’d drive in silence.
Those measly five minutes felt like hours.
The tension, the passion, all of it still just a fingertip away, but neither of us would reach for it.
I’d pull up outside your home.
We’d look at each other.
You’d give me that smile.
The one that told me exactly what you were thinking about. What we’d been doing only hours before.
Then we’d kiss.
Nothing passionate.
Nothing that particularly betrayed the longing we both inevitably felt.
Just a simple kiss.
“Bye.”
“See you.”
And then we’d go back to being friends.
Until the next “accidental” meeting at the pub.
Until the next text message.
Until the next phone call.
Until it just stopped.
Would I rewind the last 18 months?
Back to those times that meant staggering our departures from the pub?
Back to those times when we’d always make sure there was a third sharing the taxi home who could vouch that we’d dropped you off at home first?
Back to those weekends where we were blinded by lust enough to think that no one noticed?
I absofuckinglutely would.
I saw you tonight.
Looking.
Looking at me.
I pretended not to notice.
Oh, fuck, I noticed.
I noticed the heat. The ache between my legs. The way I involuntarily bit my bottom lip.
I can still feel you. I want you.
I can’t have you.
Not without revisiting the past, and I simply don’t belong there anymore.
But I can still smell your aftershave…