46. It’s Not About Kidneys

We ate lunch at a cafe. I ordered from the menu, and he had brought his own food in the brown paper sack of fate. It was time for an adventure. Or possibly a romance. Perhaps both.

There is no polite way to ask someone to accompany you to a public restroom stall, so I didn’t bother to try. I took his hand, stood up. He waited. “Come,” I said. He did.

Later, in the hotel room, I contemplated our pairing. He had the body of an Adonis, and I had the body of a patent lawyer.

We took off our armor without speaking, stacking the plates on the bed. It seemed like a silly place to put them, since I assumed we were going to be using the bed in a very short while. Perhaps the clanking clatter as they were pushed out of the way is what we were looking for. Or perhaps not. When we were naked, he fixed me with an intense stare. There was no shame. We knew what was going to happen. He turned his back to me and leaned against the wall, waiting. He was mind-shatteringly attractive. We did it. We took turns. It was good. We did eventually get around to using the bed, and the plates of armor did indeed clatter and mix as they were swept aside.

Afterwards, we sat against the wall side by side as I discussed the fermented intricacies of patent law in a dull monotone until he dropped off. Then I stole his kidneys and left him in a bathtub full of urban legends. The sweet smell of purposeful illusion stayed with me for weeks after.

While it was happening, it seemed timeless. I had no idea how it was going to end. It wasn’t until a long time after that I realized it sort of didn’t matter how it ended. In many ways, the moment is all, and the moment is moving. Sometimes, I hold onto the rope and try to stop it or at least slow it down. I am always unsuccessful, and I walk away with bleeding palms. Other times, as with the Adonis, I hold onto the rope and go water skiing.

I didn’t really steal his kidneys.

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