He says all the right things. I play all the right moves.
Soon enough we’re dancing in circles and promise we’ll only stop when somebody comes looking.
Afterwards, I will say I didn't really mean any of it. It’s a lie and we both know it is. He won’t call me out because his arm feels nice around my waist, so, who’s keeping score anyway. A friend will loudly remark: ‘Oh, isn’t the beginning just so wonderful!’ —but that’s a lie, too. Which is it say, beginnings absolutely are, but that’s absolutely not what this is.
It’s the nostalgia of it, the pretense that under different circumstances we could almost keep the game going. The sobering reality of a loud crash somewhere near the kitchen, someone yelling out my name, his name lost in my mouth, my phone refusing to charge, glass breaking under our feet and that fucking song stuck in our heads.
The nonchalance with which we lie to ourselves.
It’s the fleeting moment at four in the morning on a Sunday in an overheated, overcrowded flat in Camden, almost letting myself believe that his fingers tracing my back could still mean what I so desperately wanted them to only half an hour ago. Or was it two hours. Or have we just been going through the motions this whole time.
Maybe it was the moment I spotted him leaning against the fridge and thought, I guess tonight is as good a time as any to make sure I never forget what he looks like with his hand on the back of my neck.
We only falter when we forget.
We only remember when the music stops, and oh god , isn’t that ironic.