Memory can be sharp, or dull. Either way, it is memory, and it lingers—long and intrusive, flawed, but sometimes rich and overflowing with love.
It was about six years ago. My lover and I were out on the porch. It was a hot summer day. We talked about everything and nothing. We thrilled each other with our ideas and notions of existence. Talking about life was always sexy and made us want each other. I loved his mind. He loved mine. It was a thing of beauty. We stripped and on a blue and white porch chair, made love under the blazing hot sun. It was a very hot day. Very hot.