Drunk on orgasm, moan.
Drunk on knowing, not-knowing.
A recipe for love.
A recipe in bed.
We do not know who we are. In fact, we don’t exist. Or, we might exist and be, simply, nothing. Nobody. The nobody Emily wrote of…the nobody of the poets; the nobody of the visionaries; the nobody of the seers and changemakers. The rebels with some beautiful, crazy cause.
Slowly, slowly, his earlobe and my finger. Touching. Touching. Nobody. My finger might be his earlobe. I’m not sure.
We’ve come a very long way in a very short time, he whispers. I nod. He knows I agree without opening his eyes. The lilt in his voice. This bed. The lilt. I could listen forever.
Step Four (Finale):
Drop into all possibilities. Here I am, in this faraway bed, in Ireland, with him, in this moment—but I am also in that other moment under the bridge, two days ago, in England, when the rain struck hard and the thunder fell and the boats in the canal seemed to bask in our mad kiss and grin.
We’re going to go down in the history books, my dear.