Reflections

The atmosphere is celebratory, adrenaline pumping, partygoers smiling as the music crashes over us. Smiling up at my bien aime, I offer him a sip of my drink. He leans over and closes his lips over the straw, drawing deeply, his eyes never leaving mine. I feel his fingertips graze my thigh, then trace the curve of my hip. His lips, still wet from the drink, echo the curve when I move into the caress, nestling snugly into his side. In the mirror over the bar, I catch our reflection - we look right together, happy and affectionate. His hand, now at the small of my back, steers me toward the door. Bidding adieu to the chaos of the party, I willingly depart.

His fingers entwine with mine and tow me toward his car. In the darkened cabin, he leans over and lays his lips softly across mine. Sighing, I close my eyes and tip my head back, granting him fuller access to my mouth. Our lips meet and cling repeatedly, each time growing softer and sweeter. His arms encircle me as our mouths collide again and again, tongues playfully darting about. His hand rests on my cheek, tenderly holding me to him while mine is over his heart, clutching feverishly at his sweater. I cannot think past this moment, nor do I want to. I want to stay here in this place, where time and reality are suspended. I want to swim in it until I drown.

Yet trepidation comes, surely as the dawn, and I pull back and whisper my regrets. He pouts playfully, but gives me a small nod of resigned understanding. Tracing his index finger down the contour of my cheek, he whispers "go, then." Tripping the lock, I step out into the night, where a brisk wind cools my heated face and calms my ardor.

In the morning, I examine my reflection in my own mirror. I look the same as the woman at the party the night before. But how, I wonder, can I look so serenely unchanged when I feel so profoundly and fundamentally different?