I sat across from Anna, my hands resting on the table. She perched forward in her chair, a ragged fingernail in-between her lips, another tapping on the tabletop. The coffeepot between us, she paused her rhythm to reach for it and then proceeded to pour a cup first for herself, then one for me. The steam rose from the surface of our mugs, briefly joined together, and lingered in the air. I sunk a spoon into a mound of sugar and tipped the small mountain into my coffee. I repeated this three times, then swirled some milk into the sweet, black liquid. "When was the last time you saw him?" she asked. I thought for a moment. The last time I saw him, I decided, was in December. He was flying into the airport, and I picked him up. My car had undergone a series of rigorous cleanings, and I had determined to give up smoking for a few days. Smoking was something he abhorred, and had told me so on several occasions. It was one of the bad habits I had picked up in my life as student. So, for him I suspended my nicotine consumption. He was only planning to be in town for a day. I figured it was better to make the most of his visit by compromising my routine. It wouldn't put me out, and there would be one less thing to argue about. "Did you do anything on the way from the airport?" Anna asked. "What did you talk about? Where did you go afterwards?" We spoke of little things: how friends were doing (fine), how my job hunt was going (poorly, but I had some leads), how he was doing (fine). He suggested we go out for lunch, and I navigated on the freeway towards the downtown area of a nearby town, looking to see if my favorite Mexican place was open. It wasn't, but there were a few other options in the area. I parked the car and we tromped down the street. The street was virtually empty; it was the main drag near a university campus, and since most of the students were away on break, it felt like a ghost town. My throat was dry and my hands were moist as we walked up through the parking lot to the restaurant. Every few steps I would look over to make sure he was still walking beside me. There were a few cars in the parking lot, and a couple of people were outside on the picnic benches. They were laughing and smoking. One woman sat between the legs of a man, who was stroking her hand as it rested on his knee. It was a fine day. The sun was bright, and my long black coat soaked up the warmth. We went inside and picked out some food from the buffet. He paid and we sat down at a table. Our closest dining companions were engrossed in a meeting of some kind, so we could converse without much worry of being overheard. I took off my black coat, revealing a simple pair of black stretch pants and a black top. "You look great," he said, admiringly. I felt his eyes look me up, then down, then up again. Anna interrupted. "How did lunch go?" It progressed well. Most recently, I had seen him when I was on my way back from a trip. I had arranged to stay with him for a day and a night, and was then to progress home southward on a train. "You're only staying for a few days?" he asked when I finally arrived from the airport. "I wish you could stay longer." He put his hand on mine. I rearranged my travel plans to stay for four days. I didn't have a job to go back to, and no home to speak of, so it wasn't putting me out. In fact, I felt a whisper of excitement when he held me and put his mouth to my ear, saying, "I'm so glad you're staying. I wanted to spend more time with you." All throughout our lunch the only thought in my mind was of the last night we had spent together. How he had sighed, and how perfect his touch felt. That last time, I could feel myself slipping into a whirlpool, could literally feel the bottom of my soul drop out. I looked over the edge and could see a second self not too far below, on another ledge. My second self was holding her nose, preparing for a downward plunge. She released her nostrils and looked up at me, as if an afterthought. Her hand came up and waved heartily; then, stumbling, she fell backwards off the ledge into gray misty air. Our conversation ran to academic matters, and I explained some concepts that I had been dealing with in a couple of my last papers. He looked interested, and nodded with understanding when I punctuated a comment with an explanation. I finished a long diatribe and inhaled. "Come here," he said, standing. "Give me a hug." In the middle of the restaurant, I stood to embrace him. His hands were warm, and they held onto me, resting in the small of my back. I could feel his hips thrust slightly into me as he pulled me close. A few people turned away from their meals and offered wry smiles. They looked quickly back at their plates, perhaps worried at this display of affection, perhaps lost in thought about the last time someone did that to them. "That's odd, very unlike him," said Anna, sipping her coffee. "Has he ever done anything like that before?" I thought a moment. This was possibly the most spontaneous I had seen him. It thrilled and frightened me at the same time. Lunch finished, I suggested we go to the grocery store to get a few things for dinner later that night. I had planned a simple meal of curry and rice, with some red wine. A smile on his face, he agreed. We drove for a while, and then pulled into the parking lot. "Do they have a pharmacy here?" he asked. I nodded affirmatively. "But I might have it at home," I replied, thinking of the rows and rows of cold medicines, lozenges, half-empty vitamin bottles and the like which lined the shelves of our bathroom closet. "Well, if you had it at home, why are we stopping here?" he asked. I thought for a second. "Well, I needed things for dinner. Food, some wine, that sort of thing. What were you thinking about?" His eyes narrowed. "Condoms, you know. I didn't bring any with me." I sighed. "Of course I have those." After all, I had been anticipating this visit for weeks. I knew how unprepared he could be at crucial moments. "Then why are we stopping here?" he asked. His eyes twinkled. "Jesus, I thought we were going to sit around and talk, maybe take a walk, do something interactive first. Then dinner, then - you know." It was my turn to smile. With a hurried gait, we strode into the grocery store. I picked out the few items I needed for dinner - chicken, a bottle of decent red wine, and coconut milk - and in less than twenty minutes we were on our way to my house, my room, my bed. I carried the grocery bags into the house, and he brought his luggage. My housemate was there, and I introduced them. "Where's your room?" he asked. "It's back on the left, last door," I replied. I quickly put the chicken in the fridge and went to show him the way. Without a word, he put his bags down in my room, shut the door, and threw me on the bed. He growled. "Yikes," I said. "What's that for?" "You shouldn't have been wearing such damn sexy clothing," he responded. He started by taking his time with my mouth, caressing it with his tongue and lips. Moans and sighs were all I could speak. Hands came up to my ears, and outlined their contours. My body pressed against his. This is what I had been waiting for - this, a union of mind and spirit, body and soul, the corporeal and the intangible. Our legs entwined, and I felt his hardness rout into my thigh. Eyes closed, I could see his face, hovering above my neck; tongue creeping between lips to lick the base of my jaw and follow it to my earlobe, my mouth, my eyelids, my forehead. He peeled off my pants, and tossed them to the floor. Anna leaned forward. "Sounds pretty intense. He just wanted to jump into bed with you? Just like that?" It wasn't just going to bed with someone. I had slept with him many times before, and I had slept with many others before him. What happened that afternoon was truly indescribable. It was as if I had unlocked a vault, hidden deep within layers upon layers of mere physical pleasure. Like peeling away to reveal the naked, screaming core of sensuality. My defences were stripped away, unraveling and falling to the floor below. We spent the next three hours in bed, tongues tracing trails to secret places. I stopped worrying about how much noise we might have been making and let myself go, reaching down to feel his head in between my legs and pulling him towards me, on top of me, inside of me, below me, behind me. We fucked like we hadn't seen each other in years. My body cannot recall these rhythms happening, either before or since, filling me with wild wave after wave of release and contentment. Afterwards, laying next to each other, he stroked my face and idly ran his hand down the length of my side. "Was there something you wanted to tell me?" he asked, knowing full well the answer. I stiffened; this was it. This was what I wanted to do - I had brought it up in conversation on the phone weeks before, only to shy away from saying anything conclusive or definitive. Bathed in a soft glow from the bedside lamp, I turned over to look at him. "I think I'm falling in love with you," I said, simply. He took a beat. "That's what I was afraid of." I could feel myself rushing towards the bottom of the vortex, swimming through grey fog to reach my other self, to try and rescue her from making this mistake. Don't plunge on, I silently prayed, just shut up now and don't keep going. "You're the first person to tell me that," he said to me. After a pause, he continued. "But I just don't feel the same way. I like you a lot, though - " My eyes shut. Through the red mist, I could perceive just darkness and light. My heart was pounding, rattling against the cage of my chest. He was speaking, but I didn't hear the words. I wanted to stop the movie, to rewrite the ending, to reclaim the sentiments which had sprung from my mouth. Just when it was all going so well. We slept back to back that night, after eating a meal of fire-hot curry and drinking blood-red wine. More accurately, I drank the wine; if I couldn't have what I wanted, I could at least be drunk and say things I would claim no responsibility for later. I felt his leg twist itself between my calves, and I squeezed in kind. Anna looked at me over her coffee mug. She lit a cigarette, and passed it to me. "And you're moving on." "I can do nothing but," I replied, inhaling deeply from the burning stick. I swallowed. "I have never felt quite so alone in my life." She reached over and took my hand. "We'll continue together," she whispered. I smiled, a slight crease under my eyes, and felt her fingers settle into mine. "You wake up every day, thinking about him. One of these days, you'll wake up and not have him to think about. And then you'll be free. But he'll never forget - you - the first person to say you loved him. You'll be with him, forever. And that's his burden to bear." I nodded, my mind surging with his memory. "Have you spoken with him since then?" she asked. About a month after we saw each other, I rang him up one night. I was low on self-esteem and high on depression. For some reason, I thought talking to him would help me feel better - after all, was falling in love with someone any reason to discard a friendship with them? Yet as we talked, I found myself getting irritated at his conversation. "I was going to wait a month," he said, "before I mailed your things back to you. You know, give you some time." Very magnanimous, I murmured to myself. "I was even going to write you a letter." A letter! From the man who has written on paper exactly two words to me: "Happy Christmas!" and then his name. "You mean, I preempted a letter from you?" I said. "Well, no, I'll still write the letter," he replied. We spoke for about an hour, and then I had to go. I still haven't received the promised letter. "Come on," Anna said, looking at her watch. "It's getting late. We should get going if we're going to meet up with everyone else down at the bar." I packed up my things and started to walk out the door when the phone rang. My hand reached out and turned off the lights. The room was illuminated only by the pale streetlamp outside, thin hairs of light descending on the bare floor. Closing the door firmly behind me, I let the answering machine pick up, and the voice spoke into the darkness.