She lies on the bed. Face inches from mine, bodies parallel, limbs intertwined. Beneath her eyes you can see faint lines, the lines which, in a decade or two, will wrinkle and droop and betray her youth. Lines nobody but me and her have seen. Her pores glisten in the overhead light. Tiny traces of makeup and sweat and soft microscopic hairs dot the contours of her cheeks and nose. Her eye makeup is meticulous. I wonder what she thought about as she put it on tonight. She is beautiful. For me.
Music from my laptop ambles on in the background, unnoticed and merciless, the only object anchoring us to time. Moments are hours and hours are moments. Smile meets smile. Eyes devour each other. For all I know, I had been lying with her my whole life.
"What are you thinking about?" she asks.
The age-old question. I tense up and create an awkward smile. Even after all these years, relinquishing my most intimate thoughts meets immediate resistance. But I force myself through.
"I'm thinking about how I would write this moment."
Her eyes lighten. She smiles. She loves my writing. Even though it's hard for her to …