Sweat

Our meeting was a sweaty affair.

It was the sort of sweat that lingers like pheromones in the air, unperturbed by the AC's determined whirling. It was an indication of zeal so relentless, as if the only thing left in this world were the two bodies intertwined beneath. It was a declaration of pleasure, anguish and pain, as if all frustrations of the world could be mended with a firm grip, and released with a hard thrust.

It was an accidental masterpiece, a byproduct of rhythmic passion, a mid-tempo melody punctuated only by involuntary huff-puffs and almost-whiny sighs. It was the type of sweaty that breaks down walls and knocks over that box in your heart you labelled 'connection'.

It was the best kind of sweaty I've had in a while. And as soon as it began, it was over.

We were still sweaty, but the gentle warmth that signalled contentment turned into a calm of silence... the sort of silence that precedes awkward departures. Your eyes dimming, I watched as the fire slowly died. You followed with a goodbye that was harder than I anticipated.

I did not expect to feel this way. I did not expect to unlock the doors of intimacy. But the afterglow of sweat that trails in your wake have become a bitter reminder of that gateway slammed shut.

Our meeting was a sweaty affair, and I will remember to forget it.