What If

Last night I imagined us taking our time to undress each other in your room. I slid your shirt over your head; you unbuttoned my blouse with such careful fingers. Late sunlight slanted through the window as my skirt pooled on the floor next to your jeans, and the sky had turned deep blue once my knees hit the back of your bed, sending me in a slow, arcing tumble onto sheets that you’d just washed. They smelled like you: fresh laundry, sharp and clean, with traces of the body you wear them out in. I pulled you down.

The rest comes in hazy patches of memory tinged with too much longing. Mostly, I remember our every movement executed as if underwater, my hand fluidly curving over your ass, and hooking my leg over your shoulder seemed like a minute-long task. I remember your weight fully pressed on me, chest to chest, while you buried your face in the crook of my neck until your beard rubbed my skin pink and tender. Without any music in the background, I could hear the choked groans you tried to hide, and my own catches of breath startled the stillness in the air.

I looked into your eyes at one point, letting every wince and lip bite show from how completely you were filling me. You would shift forward, and the bed would pitch along as well to the aching, steady rhythm we set. Time started and stopped, started and stopped. When it was all over, I clung on tight with my eyes squeezed shut, picturing another image within this dream, and let go before those few seconds stretched into something too tense to unravel. I think I decided to stay for the night because for this moment only, I had enough time.