It would be the same if I walked in to that room tonight. I would still spend less than 30 seconds on my side of the couch. My legs would still snake over yours and I would still play with the soft of your earlobe as if it were mine. I would still kiss your mouth hard and fast and over and over (the kind of kiss you seemed to permit).
I would still follow you to the bathroom and sit on the edge of the tub while you showered, and I would still pretend not to care. I would still breathe deep at the sound of the water hitting your skin and feel the familiar liquid start to flow. I would still see this in the too-lit mirror – carefully careless dress falling off my shoulder, teeth on candied lip, eyes a little glazed and blinking too fast.
Because I would have still shot the vodka in the getting ready – my ritual of nerve and intoxication when the sun went down (I wonder if you ever knew how my throat burned and my knees wobbled each time I knocked at your door?).
All these years and you could still set me spinning. Still cause my hand to tremble when lifting my glass. Here it is, curled around the stem – an erotic embrace you once called it, but really it is the only solid thing, and the red you pour is our consecration.
It would be the same – even now. The sacred and the profane. Naked and cleansed, you would invite me in. An altar made and you the sacrifice. I would be tender in your destruction. Soaking the sheets, our own communion. One does not need God to be devout.
And after. My faith and your lack. It would be exactly the same. I have not wavered in this affair.