A short story about love.
‘In another life, we would be perfect’, she half whispered, half moaned in my ear. In this life we were making out on my sofa with her boyfriend passed out on my bed in the next room, the door quitley shut. The late summer sunrise rose outside my windows and the after party I hosted had turned into a completely different adventure than planned.
My living room table were cramped with champagne bottles and glasses, joints and God knows what. Before people had left, or passed out, it was one of those evenings that never wanted to end. One could almost feel, or touch, every minute. And the sweat from our dancing bodies only added an extra dimension to the love. It was one of those evenings filled with love and no trousers. We danced and we talked. Had conversations about sex, straight, gay and experimental sex, about food and words that enchants. Everyone loved everyone, we just took it an ounce more literally on that sofa, in that moment. My hands explored her body, covering her mouth, shutting up her moans. Her almost naked body hard against mine. Moving slowly, moving fast, moving up and down, coming for me. In this moment, we loved each other fiercely, in the next we knew how bad we were. We knew how much we wanted it and how wrong we were for wanting it. Wanting her, wanting me.
How that unstoppable passion leads to skin against skin, how it leads to unbuttoning shirts and bras. How soft her skin felt in my hand, how she couldn’t take her eyes of mine. How we just ended up there, on that sofa, in that moment. How we agreed to never speak of it again. How I almost fell in love, but not in this life. In another life. We did wrong, and it felt good, but it can’t be. Because not in this life. Not in my life.