Carolyn was sopping wet; I slid in easily. We held tightly to each other, kissing, touching, smelling, tasting.

“You’re shaking,” she whispered.

“I know.”

She came almost immediately, and in the past I’ve always had trouble continuing on after the girl has reached climax. My problem is that I can never convince myself that the postcoital experience is an enjoyable one, as it almost never is for me, but I didn’t have that problem then; if anything, I had to go slow to keep from finishing too soon, though it’d be too soon regardless of how long I lasted; I wanted it to last forever.

“I love you,” she breathed into my ear, her hand caressing the side of my face.

“I love you, too.”

I brought myself to the edge, slowed, then stopped. I had to pull out of her to keep from popping. She still moaned heavily, then raised her hips to me and when I reentered her she bit my neck and sent goose bumps trickling up my spine. She kept her eyes closed. I kept mine open to watch her, her lips twitching with sharp intakes of breath at each gentle thrust.

I lifted my body so that I could see myself going in and out of her. I couldn’t watch without climaxing, without going to that white oblivion, and when it began I felt as though I were being pulled in. I shuddered, held my breath, and bit down on the pillow to stay anchored to the world to keep from being lost. And then it was over.

I stayed inside her, our faces inches apart, both of us slick with sweat and out of breath. She slid her hands up my back, ran her fingers through my hair. Maybe I was wrong, maybe Carolyn was still happy, still believed in me, hadn’t found refuge in the arms of another. Perhaps the problems were only in my head, of my own creation. In that moment, I didn’t really care, and I wished I could have stayed lost in it forever.

3

We lay around for hours before deciding to see a movie to escape the sickening railroad smell and the torrid heat. It was the first time we had gone since our very first date in December. I wanted to see a big-budget action film, but Carolyn wanted to see a romantic comedy. We saw the latter. It was a terrible film filled with the same tired clichés and gorgeous actors, devoid of originality and anything else beyond cheap laughs. But I could tell Carolyn liked it by the way she kept giggling and squeezing my hand.

It was eight o’clock when we exited. The streets were packed and the lights had come on though it was still early enough to see without them. The air remained thick and heavy and I was sweating again before we had walked twenty yards.