I once had a relationship that was like a nuclear fallout. There was absurdly delicious sex around every corner so the paintings were skew. The furniture was out of place. There were clothes on the floor and enough breakage to complete with the inside of the Titanic. I stopped bothering with underwear and started bothering with transparent negligees.
Submission felt like flying, and I often saw tears in his eyes. He was profoundly moved—by us, by me, by the world that rose around us. As for me, well, I was lost somewhere in the fog of my own lust. I couldn’t hear his voice and not want to fuck him, and so we fucked… in the lounge. The kitchen. On the balcony over the coffee table on the bedroom floor.
A relationship like that is bound to fail you, and so one day we found ourselves staring out into the grey asking where we misplaced our intensity. It was me who lost it. Somewhere between the skew painting and the scattered floor, I had begun to think our perfection was impossible. Submission couldn’t possibly fly that high, and there was no such thing as a man who cries over his feelings for a woman, and sex around every corner is bound to end in celibacy.
I stopped trusting him, not because of his flaws but his beauty, which was too complete to be believed.
Every once in a while, I wonder what might have happened if I’d kept my faith in us. Outside the window, the clouds gather. The horizon tilts like a painting. I calculate the distance between the present and our last day together and imagine that I can still hear his voice.