It

You don’t believe me, but I’m telling you the truth. Me and her, we’ve never actually done, you know, it. We never have. I know it sounds incredible, but it’s true, we’ve never really done, you know, it.

We do spend a lot of time with each other. Sometimes, we’d hang out at my place. At other times, we’d hang out at her place. Yes, we are almost always alone. Yes, we are quite inseparable. But we’ve never done, you know, it.

Don’t get me wrong. I am straight. I have feelings and desires just like any man. And I do recognize that I’ve never met any girl more attractive than her in my life. But we’ve never done it, I swear.

Well, talk, that’s what we do. We talk. We do a lot of it. Or rather, she does a lot of it. I “do” a lot of listening. If we’re not talking, we’re reading. Her condo is literally filled with hundreds, if not thousands, of books. Her walls are covered with shelves, each groaning under the weight of books. If she’s not reading, she’s playing the piano. If I’m not reading, I’m listening to her playing. If I’m not listening to her playing, I’m listening to the ruffling sound she makes each time she turns a page. If I’m not listening to that, I’m listening to her breathing. Sometimes, if it’s really, really quiet, I swear, I can hear the beating of her heart. If I’m neither listening nor talking, I would just, you know, look at her. Follow her about with my eyes. She’d flit between her room and the kitchen. She’d take a quick bath or prepare something for lunch or dinner. Yes, when we’re not working, we’d usually spend the whole day together, just talking, listening, reading, watching, cooking, and eating.

The closest we’ve ever come to doing, you know, it, was one night a few weeks ago when it rained really hard in the city. We were drenched from head to foot when we got to my apartment. She borrowed my Johnny Cash shirt and changed in my room. I changed into my pajamas when she was finished. The rain didn’t let up and it was way past midnight, so instead of sending her home, we decided to watch The Crown in Netflix. We ate cheese and grapes and had too much wine. We were on the sofa, our shoulders pressed together. The room was freezing but I could feel her warm skin through the shirt I lent her. She was giggling. Something the young Queen Elizabeth said amused her. Then she gave me her glass and bid me to drink some of her wine. Then she picked a piece of grape and placed it inside my mouth. I tasted her forefinger and thumb. Before we knew it, we were tumbling down the sofa, tightly locked in each other’s embrace, wrestling on the carpeted floor, like two fighters employing Jiu Jitsu in a Mixed Martial Arts game. In one moment, my face was pressed against her throat, drinking in her scent, breathing her breath, and in the next moment, she was pushing against me, exclaiming, “Wait, stop. Stop!”

Then she sat up, straightened her shirt, and calmly said, “Don’t you find this highly improper?”

I nodded, and we both stood up, took the glasses from the carpeted floor, collected ourselves, and finished watching The Crown.

To this day, we’ve never spoken a word about that night, and we are back to our old routine: talking, listening, reading, eating.

 

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