that minute...

...you know the one.

its that minute i get to stare at you as i pull into the car park?
you stand, waiting, your face is unusually still. it has been a while, but you havent forgotten. that minute is my indulgence. being a voyeur. i smile, beep the horn and wave.

or is it that minute i open the boot for your luggage and dont just stop and move into your arms? i suddenly feel shy. the time we share is crammed with passion. the intensity, is it still there? have we/he changed? if we were dogs its in that minute we would sniff each others bums.

perhaps its that minute following the cascade of news. although intimate we share passion not our lives so the news is oddly stunted. he pauses, then reaches out a with a beautiful hand and strokes my thigh. in that minute the match is struck, flares, then settles. we arrive.

maybe its that minute we walk through the door and he catches my arm to make me stop. stop bustling and retreating into hostess mode. does he realise in that minute how vulnerable i feel, is it the same for him?

on reflection i know its that minute when we face each other and look. he brushes a curl from my kneck, his hands running down my arms to my arse. i touch his shoulders as my body moves into his. his hands continue their journey to my thighs. hesitating, then softly gathering my skirt up in bunches. i sigh.

in that minute, the flame, touches, us.

in that minute, passion erupts, the need to feel/taste/smell him/me is everything.

in that minute, to connect, viscerally, be consumed, utterly, is all. in that minute...


no, no, no!

its that minute. that minute he slides into me as i open. that minute holds our truths. that quiet pause of here, now, shared. that delicious, wonderful, minute. toe-curlingly naked. glorious. real... you know the one.