She.

"You're drunk," I say.

Marie and I are lying in bed. The warm yellow glow of the street lamp shines through the window and barely grazes the side of her face and her shoulder and her breast as I look at her, into her. She sighs and pulls closer to me. "Maybe, but it doesn't mean it's not, you know, a thing."

Her hand runs across my skin, down my side, my back, my leg. I can feel her breath against my neck. I can smell her hair. She lifts her leg and rests her thigh across me, the skin hot with release and inviting and her hand travels up my back. She kisses me and grips me with her other hand. 

"I couldn't, though," I say.

"Bullshit. You're out, after a show maybe, some bar or whatever. She's in fishnets and a short leather skirt. Curves and long dark hair and you have total permission? Bullshit. You'd be all over it." She kisses my neck. My chest. She grips tighter with one hand and travels with nails with the other.

I kiss her forehead. "I love you."

"Why are you being weird about it?" she asks. "I mean, you always want me to talk to you about things, and well, I am. So... I don't know, never mind."

"No, I'm sorry. I just," I swallow. "I didn't expect."

She kisses my neck and strokes where her grip was and I melt for her. I am whatever she wants. I am whatever she needs. I kiss her forehead. Her cheek. Her mouth. Years have passed and my heart still races for her. Still waits for her. Still craves for her. And then this. As if nothing.

"Is it a problem?" she asks.

Our kiss extends and between breaths I am only able to creep out single words.

"No...I...worry...Love...you..."

Her perfume is sweet and small. Not overpowering and also not subtle and she is a woman whose glance offers either hostility or sex and everyone thinks she looks bitchy and everyone wants to be near her and I could only breathe her in. 

"I know you do," she said. "But,..." her mouth is on me again. Her gripping hand moves forward and back and forward and back and only a few moments have passed since and already, with the conversation and the reaction, I am ready. "Tell me about her."

She bites firmly into my skin and her nails dig into me and she grinds herself against me and I wonder where I am now. What I've done now. 

For her. For me.

For us. For me?

"Tell me," she says. "Tell me about her skin," she says. Her nails scrape sharp against my skin and her teeth press into my neck and my spine chills and my skin walks and my heart races and I say;

"She..."