Sometimes you just get one night. It’s not a tragic thing. It is what it is. Two people come together, something sparks an interest—be it physical, intellectual, attitude, meta, or other; something grabs your attention. You want to crawl inside their mind, up their dress, under, over, and around. You want to make them laugh, and be made to laugh. You want to tell utterly stupid, non-sequitur tales, and hear them told. You want to lick and kiss, have your ear sucked in such a way it turns your toes in on each other. You want elastic bands lowered, knees lifted, breath heavy. You want connection. Soft skin and softer breath and 1,000 hair pins.
Sometimes you need to be reminded; reminded that you are appealing, that the opposite sex is attracted to you, that you have something to offer. Not by the girls at the bar as the night rolls way too close to that time where we all have made a stupid decision or 12. Not because they, or you, were desperate, or lonely, or hurting, or cracked, or maybe even broken. Not out of some form of vengeance against someone who will never know that the act took place, because, sadly, sometimes just throwing your body against the bed makes you feel vindicated. And then after that used, or cheap, or just plain fucking stupid. This is not what that was.
It’s not loneliness that drives you to this point. It’s something more basic, or perhaps less pessimistic. Perhaps more vulnerable. Sometimes it just happens, and in the happening it reminds you of skin and stories and words and, you dare not think it, but it is: intimacy. For what its worth, that’s what it is, that simple.
And it can come in the form of a sexy, sleek and stylish bridesmaid; blonde over blue; the one you saw earlier, the one your friends were talking about, the one everyone agreed, “if there’s one girl here, it’s her,” (besides the bride, of course, who was radiant, absolutely radiant) the one who spied you across the room; the one who, later in the hotel room, you will tell and hear all these things from, clothes on the floor, lights low, and the sun coming up through the window.
Sometimes she just sidles up to you on the dance floor, you spin around each other, sort of pretending you aren’t dancing together (you aren’t, look at the 45 degree angle), but then subtly moving forward, to the music, till your hips touch. Sometimes you just smile at each other, and sometimes that’s all it takes. At the bar later will be conversation, preamble, just a sort of ease. Like something predetermined, something of a gift out of nowhere. And there is impossibility, your lives make no sense, where you live, what you each do, you figure it all out in an instant. It’s a choice. There’s this night, this one single night, or there is nothing. Those are the options. And somehow nothing seems like a damn shame, a tiny, little regret. And somehow one single night seems to not be a mistake in the making. Perhaps just a Perfect Moment.
Because at the end of it all, after 5AM, you will place each pair of contacts into bar glasses the hotel provides. No saline. No cases. Just some drops and water because neither anticipated the wedding would end this way; roll into bed and wrap arms around and that is all there is. Because tomorrow it's gone. So you sleep.