pt. ii

The streets are black. Neon in places. Moonlit pavement and hollow thuds of shoes, feet shuffling through more feet, of children and their tired parents, couples holding hands in line. His voice is mechanical. Something unclear, against the sounds of popping balloons and spraying water. His steps are heavy. I feel them. He stops. I follow. He lets go of my hand and we stand there for a still moment, and he's looking at me. I love you, he says. This and we are still standing, and I am looking at him. Sometimes I don't think he means it and I wonder if I do. I wonder if true love exists and if it does, is it supposed to be met halfway, is it supposed to be met at all. I wonder if it is supposed to be independent of what the other person is feeling. Do you think so, I ask him, and he says no. He says true love should be able to stand on its own, without the need for it to be met, mutual, remember Beethoven. And he grabs my hand. We're walking again, and faces pass us, but I am still wondering if true love exists, if it has legs to stand, or if it's just a dress some girls use to cover the scrapes on their knees. Am I one of them, I wonder. We walk to the car in silence and we undress each other in silence.

The night is electric. The hairs on his arms stand up. Like static. His hands are damp, cold like clams. I loosen my grip and the still air fills the space between our palms, fits mine like a pocket. He's kissing me real hard. Then our hands are pressing up against the glass and it's cold in parts. I feel it slip under my fingers. His grip presses my hand harder and I scrape new lines. He pushes himself in, further, and I pull him into me, closer. He gasps. I twist and our bodies form new shadows, new shapes under the moonlight. He follows my movements, pushing each time, and I suddenly feel understood. My head is pushing against the plastic, the car door, and his against the roof. he breathes out my name, a cry and a whisper. Our sounds fill the small space and our legs are hot, bent, my toes curled, and my body goes rigid under the motions of his hips. I'm almost there. The prickly beginnings of his beard scrape the soft flesh of my neck, just there below my ear. I'm almost there. My thoughts are frozen. A moment of clarity. His motions grow desperate, mine frenzied. The moment crescendoes with his cries and his hands gasp around my face, then shoulders, and back as he pushes himself further. And then I'm there. He's there. I feel my contractions and his, simultaneous. Then it's our bodies, collapsing into each other. Loose bodies, soft breaths, and the air is stale from our sweat. The air is still. And he's looking at me.

His body is heavy on mine but I still feel weightless. All urgency is gone but my breaths have already grown forceful. His face is lying still on my neck and our chests are resting together. Tell me I'm pretty, I say, and he lifts his head. My neck is cold. My chest is cold. Our bodies are still damp and the air clings to them like bedsheets would. He looks at me and lifts my head with both hands, lifts it closer to his, suspended, and he kisses me. You're pretty, he says, and he kisses my cheek. You're pretty, he repeats, and he kisses my forehead. You're pretty. My nose. You're pretty. My eye. You're pretty. My chin. You're pretty, he says. and he kisses me again, this time on the mouth, soft at first, real gentle, and then again, and again, each time getting harder, until the moment dwindles down and our eyes are both open. He's looking at me again. And I tell him then, this is a memory I'd like to keep.