January 20th

I knew who it was with the first ring. And I knew what he wanted.

We met at a bar with sawdust strewn on the floor. Small plates of garlic and olive oil-infused treats came and went. Another carafe and another. I lost count of the glasses of wine and water and wine and whiskey.

We spoke of our place in the world, our journeys and dreams. There was some talk of lovers: his fair and captive on a northern island; mine roaming many lands near and far-warriors, poets, princes, and pirates coming in and out of capital cities, salty ports, tempestuous or calm seas, and rain-saturated gardens. He was not moved. His tacit desire overtook me and my mouth became dry with thirst and silence.

We made our way out across the night, stopping intermittently in darkened doorways, alleys, and alcoves to inhale, taste, and tempt each other. At last, we found ourselves together and alone in his den. I released the clasp at the nape of my neck and let my hair fall down, slithering over and around his face, his chest, his thighs, his heat. I closed my eyes, knowing he would never close his.