Despite my anhedonic nature, there was something that was not letting me be held back this time.
He told me we were going to write a novel, that he could be my Dorian Gray. I knew the words I was being fed were lies, but I ate them up like the sweetest candy.
The first night was the prologue he said, come to me he wept and I ran.
When our eyes met and fingers intertwined I knew I was in trouble. Everything around me was blurry. I remember a woman, in a white bathing suit dancing, I remember a big door, screens with flashes of past visitors having fun and music, loud foreign music thumping between my ears. He asked me if I wanted to leave, I did not care, I wanted to be anywhere with him.
As we walked out the big door, the crisp, cold air sobered me up. Looking around, I realized I had no idea where I was, but I trusted him to keep me safe, something that was as foreign to me as the club I had just walked out of. I leaned in for him to keep me warm and as I looked up, into his crystal clear eyes, I was drunk, all over again.
Finally, we were alone and as a comforting tension of confusion and lust brimmed the room, I smiled, not because I was happy, because I knew this was a moment I wanted frozen in time.
We spoke about Stanley Kubrick, George Jung while listening to Jay-Z, things that don't seem to belong together, but somehow flowed like a river into the ocean.
I felt like I had seen him, kissed him and felt him in a past life. There was something about the comfort I felt and the way he felt it too. Smoke filled our lungs and vodka was the taste on our tongues but I never felt so healthy.
It may not have been real, but it was raw and it was simple and it was vindicating. We laid next to each other, skin to skin, both of us exposed, both of us vulnerable. That is when he asked me how this story would end and before being able to respond I was woken.
My perfect moment, being nothing but the cruelest of dreams.
