His desk was made of dark wood and when you ran your fingertips across it, you could feel a soft kindness. His plants were green, alive and thriving and the sky outside behind his damp hanging clothes was a brownish ash color.
I opened the balcony door to take a deep breath, a mix of fresh air and cigarettes. His cats rubbed against my bare legs, my hair pinned back and one of his t shirts hung on me above my white socks.
The night was dry like the few bottles of Riesling I finished off before showing up at his door the night before, unannounced. Not knowing what I was going to get, just wanting to spend hours looking into his eyes sitting on his sofa I could always feel myself infinitely sink into. His building was ancient and harbored the same musky smell as any of the other old mansions in the city. Nathan took my hand and walked me up the old staircase. I wondered how many other vulnerable women climbed the same path as I since it had been carved.
“Nate,” I mumbled. “I’m sorry, it’s so late.”
“Shh,” he said quietly, closing his door behind us.
I looked around his dim lit apartment after kicking off both of my shoes. Nothing had changed. His book shelves still unsorted, ivy hanging from his bay windows, a sense of familiarity that made my muscles tighten inside of my chest.
We talked and touched like we had just seen each other the night before. My head was spinning, his balcony lights blurred and danced around my eyes. His kiss burning into my neck; his hands carving into my back. I stared up at the ceiling and focused on the hazy, constant flow of nothing but good feeling.
