Ritual. (Rest assured it's fiction..)

The culmination of insecurities shared with brave tentativeness,
of endless conversations about timing,
of drunken attempts and sober regrets,
of clandestine note-sharing with friends:

Yes, the culmination of all that is finally here. A sliver of moonlight quietly illuminates the room, the wine is beginning to fulfil its obligations, the music is painfully contrived. A piece of furniture has never seemed so intimidating but we find it in us to face the challenges it offers.

"I love you..." He says, sitting on the bed, pulling me close.

"Love you too.."

There is hand-holding and face-cupping, and even the shuffling of feet, but we find ourselves stalling for there we are, the two of us swathed in an impenetrable black. We try, through languid kisses and genital-grazing, to find shape beneath the staid opaqueness. Each one tries equally desperately to disrobe the other; each one is equally adamant to hold on to their own shroud.

"Um. Are you...?" I ask, laughing nervously.

"Yeah...no..defin.." he answers, pausing. "Yeah."

"Well then you have to...you know..."

"I know." Maybe we should just..."

"Maybe. Yeah.."

We tousle each other's hair an appropriate amount and he, with the precision of a surgeon, smudges my eye make-up with his fingers. We adjust our bed linen according to cinematic diktats, gaze at each other with vacuous fondness.

"Cigarette?" I ask casually.

"Sure."

We lay in each others arms and fall asleep smelling of smoke.