I decided to clean out an old box of my stuff, you know, burn what I don’t need and look for somewhere better to store the other things.
I found a little plastic bag of photographs, and promptly dropped my good intentions. I spent almost an hour sitting right in the middle of the rubble, giggling at how skinny I was in the photos, and remembering what led up to each of them. Then I saw some pictures of you.
Back when we were dating.
I think I froze for a short while, because… I don’t know, I just froze. And then I began to remember everything.
I thought about how dark you were, and how fair that made me seem, beside you. Thought about how I loved to put my flesh on yours and marvel at the contrast. Loved to take pictures of my yellow nestling boldly on your black.
I floated back to hot afternoons in your stuffy bedroom, wrestling our tongues together with no thought of winner or loser. Kissing you was fun; in the heat of naughty, passionate and explicit kissing you would often shock me with a kiss so innocent, so sweet, so tender that I’d gasp and struggle to catch my breath; confused, bashful yet oh so very pleased and pleasured.
I could almost hear your voice, that deep masculine rumble in the valley of your throat, rising up to sing me good morning songs, or shyly tell me sweet nothings on the phone till I fell asleep.
I remembered how naive you could be sometimes about sex; the talking and the doing. I never fully understood that. After all, you’d had a wild past and you broke my heart when you said, quite blandly, that you had no unfulfilled sexual fantasies, and no real interest in sleeping with me.
So we focused on other levels of intimacy. I pondered on how much we must have spent on airtime. Maybe we had even been the reason for MTN’s profit, that year. We were almost constantly in touch; calls as early as 4.30am, and chats as late as 2am.
I thought back to one of the things I’d most loved about you; the fact that you were almost always awake when my irregular sleep patterns woke me. I only had to send a text, or IM you, and five minutes later, your messages would come in, with mushy words and something to make me feel good.
I looked up from the debris of pictures and smiled a little, sadly. We were so intimate, you and I.
And now we don’t even talk anymore.