… mea culpa?

Je ne dors plus. Je te desire. Prends moi. Je suis a toi. Mea culpa.

There is laughter at the table when we gather. Conversations cross over each other. There is food. Too much food. I am nervous. He can see that. He puts his hand on my leg as a way to show me it’s okay. Everyone sees. No explanation needed. I laugh, I join the conversation. I am comfortable. He is laughing too. His dark eyes glint in the candle light of the table. More food. More conversation. Hours seem like minutes. It’s over. People get ready to leave. So do I. He takes my hand and whispers in my ear in the kitchen: “don’t leave yet.” I say goodbye to the others. The nervousness is back. A different kind. A different reason.

Je veux aller au bout de me fantasmes. Je sais que c’est interdit. Je suis folle. Je m’abandonne. Mea culpa.

We are sitting outside watching the stars. I love to sit in silence. So does he. I am smoking. He has quite for the holy month. I put it out. He shivers. It’s cold outside on the balcony. I shiver. He puts his arm around me. I can feel the warmth of his body under the jersey he is wearing. The ridges of his muscles as he pulls me closer to him. Our tongues entwined, as our bodies nestle against each other. I feel weak. He is strong. He whispers something in my ear. Words I don’t understand. They will haunt my dreams. His hands wonder. So do mine. The night is a silent witness to our desires. We give in. It’s slow. Painful. Exquisitely gentle. It lasts for a lifetime. A different time.

Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison. Mea culpa.

I remember the words spoken that afternoon, “keep it light. No pressure”. I am reminded of a promise I made to myself with the last disappointment. I will break this man’s heart. Mea culpa.

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