She was a creature of impulse, and her impulses were dramatic and irresistible. Because of my infatuation, I would sometimes not notice that they were also frequently dangerous. I should have guessed how unusual we must have seemed to others by the strange way people recoiled from us when we were together in public, but I chose to ignore signs that normal people might have taken more seriously. When an envious stranger at the adjacent urinal in the men’s room says something like “dude, you gotta get her to a motel”, you should be alert that life is about to become more eventful.
I was hypnotized by her carefree sensuality, and took for granted that some part of her anatomy was always against my skin. She had probed so often and so vigorously into my pants pockets with her hands that the holes she made enabled her to hook her index finger into my back pocket and touch bare skin as we walked. We never cuddled. We wrapped around and through and into each other until no square inch of flesh was left cool to the touch. A barrel of wet snakes could not have been closer.
I assume all couples behave like this sometimes, but I had never been so keenly aware of how satisfying it can be when you’re not taking it for granted.
One night, I walked into the apartment we shared two hours later than I had promised to find her sitting in the dark smoking (something she only did to punish herself for drinking too much). As I entered the room, she expertly flipped her half smoked cigarette into my chest where it exploded in a cascade of embers. When I tried to stomp out the flecks of glowing ash and carpet, she emitted a low feline growl and sprang at me, alternately clawing me, kissing me hard with her open mouth and biting my neck and throat. Whether she was penalizing me for my tardiness or indifferent to it, I couldn’t guess, but I could not have been more satisfied. She was attractive, intelligent, and I thought she loved me passionately, so why after two years did she vanish?
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