As she arches her back, inhaling irregularly, beckoning you to pop the buttons of her blouse, you realize it’s been far too long since you last did this.

You remember with the clarity that only smell and touch memory can have. Her skin, peachy and soft. Hot at the touch. How it trembled slightly when you would run your fingernails across her back, tracing elaborate patterns that only you remember but they were oh, so clear.

She’s kissing your neck and running her hand across your thigh. You don’t like that, but you don’t tell her. You play with her hair some more, grab her by the waist and make her straddle you.

You remember that day you two spent outdoors, probing, tasting, exploring. How you mapped each of her erogenous zones with millimetric precision. How you then spent months working out the different orders in which you could attack them. How she clawed your back and bit you that one time (which was not an altogether unpleasant sensation, you discovered).

She is hugging you and nibbling silently on your ear. You barely know her name. You barely care. You just hold her gingerly and start tracing patterns on her back with your fingernails.

You go back to that last time you were together. She lit up a cigarette, looked you in the eye. You shied away. You both knew it was over.

And now you’re here, with this other woman. This person you don’t really care about. And her hair color is wrong, her skin tastes too… different, and you’re just going through the motions. You’re caressing her bottom while you softly blow on the base of her back, and suddenly you realize she’s looking at you with a curious and mildly unsatisfied glance. “That’s not doing it for me, honey”

And then, just like that, it hits you like a brick to the head:

You’re not over her yet.

You roll over, curse silently and light up a cigarette. Shit.

— sergio on September 20, 2004