#66
13.
She came and went in the apartment. Sometimes I would return in the evening and see the signs that she had been there. A pair of underwear on the bathroom floor, or a coffee cup left on the table. I found food in the fridge I didn’t buy and magazines on the sofa. It felt like we lived together, as any couple did. Some evening we would eat together, always over wine, sometimes sharing indulgent small desserts like a rum baba or a chocolate mousse. She tugged at my heart. Left me small messages on the country of the kitchen with a heart and an xx at the end. We didn’t know each other, we didn’t really understand what was going on, but we were following some kind of path. There was an instilled trust between us that wasn’t necessarily spoken, but existed. We didn’t have to talk about it. These days passed quickly.
Our story was detached but with a note of reliance. Reliance on knowing that, no words of love had been spoke, no feelings of each other shared, no physicality, only the intense feeling of longing, lust, for each other that permeates all of our daily activities. A feeling of pleasure, bordered with extreme thoughts of what if I go home and she’s gone? I ached for her, I lost weight, and lost focus at work. London became only an after thought, a city like any other, a place of annoyances and difficulties.