I remember her feet, wearing her gloves, on the dashboard and thinking to myself, this isn’t real; this is a movie I’d write for myself.
We talked, we sat quietly listening to songs—our songs…We stopped at every state line and fucked. In fields, church parking lots, abandoned gas stations…
She moved me to her seat and found her way to me—back arched, sweat rolling down her ribs, past her tattoo, onto my chest. Every stop left a new nose print smudged onto my windshield, reminders that would last far longer than her orgasms.
Was this real? Was this right? Was this simply fucking across state lines?
I didn’t know, I just knew to take every moment.
She had taught me both the idea of love, and detachment.
As a result, I never knew how I really felt, outside of a deep, dark longing.
But at least, for a brief moment, true or not, I felt like a man. A man that was wanted—craved. Capable. The man I always pictured myself to be, in the deepest darkest corner of my subconscious.
I knew it wouldn’t last, but it didn’t stop me. I knew we wouldn’t, but that didn’t mean that we couldn’t.
Except we shouldn’t…
…and I wasn’t ready to face that simple, overarching fact.
Love. You don’t know if you really even have it until you realize that you never actually did.
It really is amazing how easily an orgasm can be confused as such, in any state, across so many lines.