a memory

Like me, Adam has literary aspirations (pretensions?). We're talking about them.

I ask if he ever writes things down in his head, as they're happening, because I do that. "Like right now, this moment," I say. "How would you write this?"

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We're lying in bed all tangled, arms and legs and bare chests pressed snugly against each other in the red light filtering through the curtains.  “Does it always feel like this?” he murmurs. “I don't think it always feels this good, just to be touching someone. Does it?”

I have been wondering the same thing all morning, all night. Have I just forgotten? Has it been that long? Or is this out of the ordinary? Does it always feel this way?

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I feel rather than see his smile, since his cheek is resting on my forehead. "I'm not telling you," he says.

"Good. I'm not telling you either."