consummate desire

The promise of something is usually sweeter than its fulfillment; desire is at its fiercest before it is acted upon or slaked. There were endless exchanges before the fact. Everything had a meaning. Among the negotiations, from opening salvo to the last safe step on the slippery slope, there were also stories, of summers abroad, loves and decisions irrelevant to ours, jobs, beating his own best time in the pool. In other cultures, the ending is all that matters. But at what point can you say that something has ended? Distance is an optical illusion: it’s often easier to feel alienated from those who are the closest and closest to those who are impossibly far. Time, too, is indistinct: there are some feelings that time cannot corrupt or erode, and some minutes, hours, moments that feel like an era. At what point did it start, and when did it end? Was it over when he said goodbye between the park and home? Or was it that other goodbye that seemed more real? There were many goodbyes, but it was that word in the middle of the conversation that really killed you. What’s next, his friend asked. Nothing, he answered. You knew it already, somewhere inside, but hearing it came swiftly and sharply, as subtle as an axe. You felt almost nothing at all. But once the blood starts flowing, it’s hard to staunch. You wanted more than sex, but you wanted that too. What possibilities are open to you now? None of it is a coincidence; you hope he’ll see that too. Less, you've seen it said somewhere before, is a possibility. He even gave you the book. You know it’s true, and he never once condescended to you. But still. You don’t want less. You want more.