Two

He wasn’t there at all; it was just the music that made her heart ache, swim, stir like those moments when they had kissed, when he had touched her hand, when he had reached to her cheek and held her so gently, stroked her hair softly, gave her all of the love that he now thought he couldn’t give.

He wasn’t there to kiss her thighs, to kiss her knees, to kiss her calves and her ankles, to worship her in that way that felt like she was a part of love, like they were both a part of the same love, worshiping some sacred moment, some higher power with every religious slip of a tongue, with every precious pressing of lips. Yet, he was there, the whole time: The music sang to her in the same way he moved along her body; it soothed her in exactly the same ways his lips broke — with easy, warm kisses — her iceberg tension; it enveloped her in exactly the ways his arms enveloped her, his energy wrapped around her; it slipped into her ears exactly as his breath, his conversation entered her mind, feeding her soul more thoroughly than any other nourishment.

He would be a part of her forever, now – as he had been a part of her through all the years apart, despite forgetting how she’d loved him once, long ago, in such a youthful, hopeless way. For now, they’d had conversations as adults; they’d made love as adults; they’d held each other’s eyes and bodies as adults:  with full consciousness.

She didn’t want any other, and she thought she’d likely wind up with another, at least for a time.

When she was with him, though… there was no other.  There was only him.  Two, alone, and her.

And that was all there ever needed to be.