It has been a long time since we last saw each other, he recognises it as much as I do, the two of us exchanging shy little nods as we were introduced to each other through a mutual friend. Neither of us cared to point out that we already knew each other, and had for some time. Knowing each other was an understatement. I’d memorised him, just as he had memorised me. In the dark nights where we stole away from the collected party, we would test our boundaries with each other, pulling and pushing, using hands to grope at clothing and at flesh to try and communicate our wanton desires to each other. The pitch of his groans, the frequency of my gasps was the rating program to tell each other how well we were doing. He’d push my back against the nearest solid surface, pinning me there with the weight of his own body, making a stark contrast between the chill of something unloving, and his all too warm and responding flesh. I enjoyed that, I enjoyed those moments that we had together.

The mutual friend leads him by the arm, tows him this way and that through the pitching waves of the crowd, introducing him to this person, and this person, and that person. He knows who they are, he’s heard me talk about them, but he plays dumb for courtesy sake. He nods politely, curving his lips up into that subtle little smile of his, the right side of his mouth pulling up just a little more. It made his eyes narrow and twinkle with humour. I missed that smile being directed at me, even if at the time it had been more primal than controlled. He extended his strong hands towards some other man to shake, grasping fingers about knuckles in a small little battle for dominance over the interaction. Both men let go, satisfied they did not look weak on first meeting.

I remember how strong those hands were, how they could so easily fold me against his chest and hold me there against his comforting warmth, secretive and safe. Or how if he wanted to, he could push me away, or against something, kneading my flesh between those strong fingers so hard that sometimes I would bruise. I never told him in our time together, but I loved those bruises, those marks of passion that told him that I was his. He left little kiss marks upon my neck, under the collar of my shirt and the waistline of my pants. I left a bite imprint on his shoulder, and in the morning lazily scratched love hard in his shoulder blade with my fingernail. Legs entwined within each other’s and the bed sheets, his face turned towards me in the look of serene calm and sweet sleep. The sunlight starting to stream through the window, that made his hair look like a golden halo from where I was lying on the pillow opposite to him. I wanted to reach out and touch him, yet I dare not wake him and spoil this moment. Then he would open his eyes, and blink a few times looking in my direction. We would both blush like virgins and murmur sweet good mornings, but the awkward moment never did pass until one of us had dressed and politely excused ourselves, citing some kind of work or family ‘to do’ before leaving out the bedroom door, and letting the other listen for the latch and a car pulling out of the driveway.

I wonder if he still think about us the way I do, the way my memory conjures him up when I am alone and lonely, when the itch gets to me more than I can take it, and I nudge my fingers underneath my belt to relieve the heat. I wonder if in desperation, he thinks about me in the middle of the night, using our memories of wanton desire and a rather forceful lust. I wonder if he ever notices when we are in the same room, more common that not now it seems. Whether he catches the secretive little glances that I cast out his way from the corner of my eyes, or perhaps it is me who is missing the signs coming from his end of the room. Perhaps he is willing me to look his way, so he can raise a hand as if in greeting, and we both would take it as an invitation to leave the party. Together. I wonder if he regrets it, the things that we did. If he isn’t speaking to me because he is shy, or because he wants to forget. I wonder if he ever knew what he was doing. He’d admitted it to me that this was ‘a first,’ for him, and in my shame I had to admit that I had done this many times. At least, he reassured me with that lopsided smile of his, I would be able to teach him how to do it. We’d chuckled at that.

I wonder if he remembers my body the way that I remember his. I wonder if he can recall the way that my chest dips and curves, the way that my shoulders are straight and broad like his are. The way my legs are strong, and hard. The way that I have no breasts, but rather hardened flesh like him. I wonder if he regrets that I was never a girl, and that our encounters were never as ‘straight forward’ as they should have been. I wonder if he knows how much I still crave him, how I have to sit down with my legs crossed under the table for a moment unless I embarrass myself with my rather obvious desire.

I catch his eyes across the room and his cheeks turn a little rosy. I can tell he remembers just as much as I do.