The thing that’s so terrifying about other people is that whenever we’re with them, we risk giving them ourselves as we are in that moment forever. I have no idea what your most persistent memory of me is.
I always think of you that night at the party, in your black dress with the open back, when we were returning from our hideout. I walked three paces behind you, and you threw your head over your shoulder, looking back at me, grinning, knowing, stopping in the middle of the hallway.
I closed up on you and put my hands on your waist. You tensed up, and then relaxed. I felt your body against mine, warm through our clothes. I tensed up, and then relaxed. I moved my left hand up the front of your body, just barely reaching your neck, and felt you lean your head back against my shoulder. Our breathing grew heavier together.
You pushed yourself back against me, slightly, inviting. I breathed on your neck. I licked my lips and turned your head toward mine. Your blue eyes radiant as ever from the sparse light showering us from the ceiling. You smiled.
The opportunity to create a lasting moment is, of course, the exciting thing about other people as well.