witty-remark's Diaryland Diary

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All night at the party, we exchange covert strokes beneath tables , in corners, behind counters. When our hands aren't seen they become obscene.

The other couples are older, have been together longer; they can keep their hands to themselves. They can sit at a comfortable distance from one another. Their bodies can brush past each other's without their hands folding around a waist or an arm.

But we can't.

We are tense and electric, yet subtle. With my back pressed against the wall, we casually discuss Marxism with the others, as you slide your hand down the curve of my spine and slip it into my waistband. From their perspective, it looks like nothing more than a supportive pat. From ours, it feels like an inside joke.

Before you drop me off, you veer into an abandoned road. Beneath the orange glow of a flickering street lamp, we climb into your backseat and unwrap one another before wrapping around one another. It all feels so juvenile and deliciously high school.

After short breaths and long sighs, we smile at one another and roll out the back door to sit in the front once again. Just one devilish grin spread across our face with no words to acknowledge our escapade, and we drive away.

At my front door, you tenderly kiss my hand over and over again, then my cheek and lips.

"I have to go," but you claw my arm and drop your head into my lap.

"You're a big baby, you know" I tell you as I sweep your hair away to one side.

I lift you up and kiss you one last time, looking back to see my hand print marking the back window of your car.

1:36 p.m. - Sunday, Nov. 14, 2010

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