First and Last

A brief meeting ignites longing, desire, and the memory of a first and final encounter.

His pace was quick and wide, though he wasn't a particularly large person. He was tall, but not a giant by any means. I wasn't sure if it was his frame or the way his heavy clothes hung on him that made him seem taller. It seemed as if he pushed his head forward when he walked, as if it were the first thing to enter vision.
I was surprised to see his face so clearly, even from fifty meters away. My eyesight could barely make out a restaurant menu most days, yet here he was, distinct and radiant. He stood out in a city of millions, not because of stature or posture, but because of the effortless magnetism of his beauty. He moved with the grace of a modern Alain Delon, as though he had spent years perfecting the subtle art of walking just so.
His hair was overgrown but never unkempt, falling neatly whichever way the winter breeze carried it. He stood four or five inches taller than me, an oddity for someone long considered tall, but it suited him perfectly. The prominence of his head was merely proportional, and I felt grateful, more face to study, more to admire, more to imagine pressing kisses upon. I forced the thought away, knowing that once indulged it could consume me entirely.
His eyes looked restless, as if denied sleep. They often found mine, and even when they did not, I still felt them reaching. His gaze was steady and searching, as though he sought to read the very thoughts swirling in my mind, hoping prolonged contact might coax them from my lips without my speaking. I tried to remain calm and casual, listening and adding a few light remarks, without dragging conversation with meaningless fillers about how long the journey felt or how tasteless the food was. None of it mattered anymore. Everything, every frustration and every inconvenience, had led me here, to this moment with him.
He ate quickly, though not greedily, suggesting hunger rather than gluttony. Sloppy eating would normally irritate me, yet with him it spoke of appreciation rather than carelessness. His fingers twitched occasionally, perhaps a fleeting desire to touch me, though likely a minor nicotine craving. I offered little beyond murmurs, yet it seemed to affect him. Most people relish speaking about themselves; he did not, or perhaps he found my reticence disarming.
His room was neat without being sterile, reflecting order without stripping away the sense that he had a soul. I gazed into his eyes. "There's no soul in them," he remarked. I laughed softly at the absurdity, as he seemed to possess more soul than anyone I had ever met. "Looks pretty full to me," I replied. He half-smiled, a faint pity in his expression, one I would come to recognize.
When we kissed, he was unlike anyone I had known. Gentle, deliberate, and slow, his movements contrasted sharply with the hurried, mechanical firmness I had experienced in the past. In that moment, I understood the allure of prolonged intimacy, of surrendering fully to touch and presence. I pressed closer, remembering no initial point of contact, though it was likely his face, the part I had vowed to avoid, and marveled at the depth of desire it provoked. I wanted to consume him: the heat of his breath, the trace of his skin, the subtle scent that lingered, the collision of his soulless soul with mine.
His loungewear made him softer than I had seen him before. He lent me his clothes so I did not have to slip back into my dress and tights, and I tightened the drawstrings until the waistband barely clung to my hips. They smelled of him, and I nearly considered stealing them. His friends were open, kind, and witty, and I was relieved by their presence, sensing that he was at ease with them. Among them, his transparency was effortless; he seemed fully aware of both his flaws and virtues, yet I observed him solely through the lens of my own experience.
I watched him unwind. His cheeks flushed, his eyes grew heavier and darker, and the boyishness within him emerged. He grew ravenous, and I caught myself staring as he scoffed food, smiling unconsciously at how beautiful he looked. It had only been moments since we were intertwined, and I already missed it. His grazing touches across my back, his whispers in my ear, made it all the more difficult. I always wanted to be close to him, even if it was just the brush of his breath against my skin or an accidental foot knocking against mine under the table.
I longed to tell him something of meaning, to reassure him, to prove to myself that I could open up. To beg him, even, to send me a photograph of his face each day so I would never go a day in my life without seeing it. But he was quick to fall asleep, and I imagined he always was. I lay awake beside him, watching, unwilling to close my eyes in case he was not there when I opened them again. I studied every frown line, every strand of hair, every twitch and murmur. I experimented gently, blowing across his hair to see him squint, tracing his scalp with my nail to make him scratch. Since touching him, I had no desire to stop. I stroked his rosy cheeks, kissed the wrinkled contours of his forehead, and whispered how greatly I adored him. I wondered how much of my heart was still mine, when so much of it was already his.
I drifted between wakefulness and sleep, adjusting my position and feeling his body mold to mine. At dawn, he shifted restlessly, and I lifted his arm, startled at its unexpected weight, pondering whether unconsciousness could alter the perception of mass. I slipped away to the bathroom, letting the cold tiles and morning sun wake me, delaying my return as I tried to tame my hair. When I came back, he was still half-awake, eyes fluttering shut as though he had been waiting for me.
My chest tightened with joy, wishing I could hold that single moment forever. I climbed back into bed, and this time his kiss was deeper, hungrier, before he sank back into sleep. The alarm went off soon after, and he stirred, checking his phone. I rolled over, refusing to accept morning, but when he lay back down beside me, it felt like a gift. I pressed myself close to him, covering him in kisses, letting his warmth burn into me. He kissed me back, and we needed no words at all.
By late morning, though, he had grown cooler, quieter, and I felt the familiar sting that my love would forever burn brighter, that my affections, clumsy and wordless, were not enough. But what could I possibly tell him? That I wanted to wake up next to his darling face every morning for the rest of my mortal life? No, of course not.
The journey home passed too quickly. I drifted through the streets in a daze, wondering if in that exact same moment he was thinking of me, wondering too if I would ever see him again.