Being There: A snapshot of an intimate conversation at 4am

Hello dear reader!

I wanted to practice writing dialogue, and what better time to do so in this month of symbolic romance! So though my own dating life is a little thin-on-the-ground at the moment, here's an imagined snapshot into modern romance.

All my love and stars,

Char xxx

-

We lie here hand-in-hand. You hold me close, and inhale everything I am. Then I do the same for you.

Did I know myself to be this happy ever before? Probably. But in this place and time I struggle to remember being anything before such a beautifully present moment.

It is late-early, the bubble of breath and pheromones and silence that is your room in the wee hours is one I want to stay within forever.

I feel as if in a dream.

In-between half-lidded sleep, your whispers and arms raise me from sentiment to words:

'You're really nice.'

'Thank you.'

'You're welcome.'

...

'Are you alright? I'm not squishing you or anything?'

'No, no. You're fine.'

'You don't want me to move my head? Hm just worried about your arm.'

'I'm alright. You fit quite nicely over it actually. I fit around you maybe. How tall are you?'

'Five foot five and a half.'

'I don't know how much that is in centimetres.'

'Maybe like one sixty? One seventy?'

'You're nice either way.'

'How tall are you?'

'Around one eighty.'

'What's that in feet?'

'I've got no clue sorry.'

...

'Are we idiots?'

'Yeah.'

'Mainly because you don't know how to explain height properly. And me sleeping with you means I'm an idiot.'

'More fool you. Idiot.'

'Hm... You're mean.'

'Yeah. Sorry.'

'No. You're the opposite of sorry.'

'Hmh.'

I let myself lie there between your murmurs as night-musk breath mixes with your sweat into a sickly sweet musk. We must smell primal in this nocturnal heat. Your air conditioner broke before the summer came in full force, and no-one's come to fix it yet.

I can’t smell you though. And I hope you don’t me either. My nose has become accustomed to everything that constitutes us. You. Me. Everything.

This crush flows through me like a coolness of water between two stones, stained smooth through constant pressure. I bury myself completely in your presence.

I don't know how much time passes before you speak next. But when you do, it feels like coming home.

'I like this nothing. You don't get that much anymore,'

'It's nice isn't it?'

'Yeah.'

'You're nice.'

'Thank you. So are you.'

We are one, yet we are not anything. The ‘what are we’ question could foster itself into a conversation by day. But in these night-trappings I believe we must never end. To suggest even the notion of being apart would break this wonderful something we’ve started here. And building something lit by a lilac shroud of moonlight can only create the most fey-like of structures.

You are magically delicate, and no break in silence must shatter your spell.

So I kiss you instead.

And in that moment, I could swear you were liquid gold.