we could do well to remember that.
it makes me remember the night.
like a cannon i'm back in his bed, still like the pressure of warmth. august never had it so hard.
we were just talking. talking that sort of talk that spreads the darkness into one thin thread, the talk that makes you forget that the other person is naked, the talk that makes you wonder if the other person's voice always sounded like that, the talk that pushes those things that happen in a summer to the edge ... but to the edge of what?
then we heard it. a faint sort of breathing at first, then a heaving gasp piled on top of another and another. it didn't take us long to figure that it was coming through the open window, out of which we could just barely see the moon.
we couldn't tell if it was coming from a room upstairs or from the building across the alley. everyone left their windows open during the summer in boston.
we lay still and quiet, a hushed sort of wonder, as we listened to their panting, their breathing, their smallish gasps and moans. we just lay there, unspeaking and swimming in blue sheets as though it was a storm we were caught in all this time.
we didn't look at the clock or each other. the two of us stared at the ceiling and softened our breathing to hear theirs. i faintly smiled at the maybe recognition that she sounded like she was faking it. he cleared his throat.
our conversation ended, and i rolled over to my side. we fell asleep, not touching as we often didn't touch while sleeping, after they reached their climax and the night was returned to whoever owned it in the first place.
things were never perfect.
