Great Sexpectations: Volume Seven

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The best thing about a fall, surely, is the potential it provides for a comeback. This is what’s crossing my mind as I sit in the library, the ice queen and I, in the corner on an upper floor, secreted between two bookstacks. It’s late into the night, and my thoughts were, until an hour ago, solely focused on the unfinished essay waiting downstairs for me, glaring out from the computer screen. The library is quieter now, post-midnight; when I trudged upstairs for a book, I was disturbed by the sound of footfall. She came up and, seeing me, came over to talk. The reality of the situation is laughably casual, for we are both slumming about, both in not-our-best jeans, her in a plain vest and me in a t-shirt. Yet the conversation becomes intimate, as she discards the persona that she has supposedly been assuming for the past weeks, and the strangeness of the situation fades as she opens up. She tells me of the planned fun in baiting a random person, and how the recent development between my best friend and I changed her perspective; the challenge started to possess too much destructive potential. I tell her how the relationship between the two of us has stalled, despite being amicable again since the Fuzzys disaster. My best friend then fades from thought, among the jokes, the flirting, and the occasional flash of old siren qualities, but which now are transposed, genuine and exciting, into the true person.

At some trivial little moment where we laugh together I lean over and kiss her. As I move I see a little flash of surprise at the suddenness of the movement, but then our eyes close and I can feel the arching corners of her mouth as she smiles through the kiss. In the culture of drunk encounters I’ve been exposed to this term, our library rendezvous reminds me that the sober kiss remains the most incredible thing – a relatively superficial embrace reinforced by substantial feeling. I can remember the feel of her wet body against mine, a weeks-old image given new vitality, and at this point I don’t care about the challenge, or any plans for relationships. I want to have sex with her, not through any vague ideas about status, but with the most exhilarating reckless intent.
She can tell, and she responds, pulling me to my feet from our place on the floor. We rush back to my room, and she pulls me against the door in a long-savoured kiss, my hands fumbling for the key as we pull away. She watches with coy amusement as I realise, horrified, that it must have fallen out on the library floor. There is a pause as we look each other, the electricity fading at the thought of traipsing to her room, before she pulls at my hand. I’m led downstairs and out into the still summer night, towards some grassy corner secluded in the early morning darkness. She smiles again, our bodies come together, and I’m all expectation.

The best thing about a fall, surely, is the potential it provides for a comeback. This is what’s crossing my mind as I sit in the library, the ice queen and I, in the corner on an upper floor, secreted between two bookstacks. It’s late into the night, and my thoughts were, until an hour ago, solely focused on the unfinished essay waiting downstairs for me, glaring out from the computer screen. The library is quieter now, post-midnight; when I trudged upstairs for a book, I was disturbed by the sound of footfall. She came up and, seeing me, came over to talk. The reality of the situation is laughably casual, for we are both slumming about, both in not-our-best jeans, her in a plain vest and me in a t-shirt. Yet the conversation becomes intimate, as she discards the persona that she has supposedly been assuming for the past weeks, and the strangeness of the situation fades as she opens up. She tells me of the planned fun in baiting a random person, and how the recent development between my best friend and I changed her perspective; the challenge started to possess too much destructive potential. I tell her how the relationship between the two of us has stalled, despite being amicable again since the Fuzzys disaster. My best friend then fades from thought, among the jokes, the flirting, and the occasional flash of old siren qualities, but which now are transposed, genuine and exciting, into the true person.

At some trivial little moment where we laugh together I lean over and kiss her. As I move I see a little flash of surprise at the suddenness of the movement, but then our eyes close and I can feel the arching corners of her mouth as she smiles through the kiss. In the culture of drunk encounters I’ve been exposed to this term, our library rendezvous reminds me that the sober kiss remains the most incredible thing – a relatively superficial embrace reinforced by substantial feeling. I can remember the feel of her wet body against mine, a weeks-old image given new vitality, and at this point I don’t care about the challenge, or any plans for relationships. I want to have sex with her, not through any vague ideas about status, but with the most exhilarating reckless intent. She can tell, and she responds, pulling me to my feet from our place on the floor. We rush back to my room, and she pulls me against the door in a long-savoured kiss, my hands fumbling for the key as we pull away. She watches with coy amusement as I realise, horrified, that it must have fallen out on the library floor. There is a pause as we look each other, the electricity fading at the thought of traipsing to her room, before she pulls at my hand. I’m led downstairs and out into the still summer night, towards some grassy corner secluded in the early morning darkness. She smiles again, our bodies come together, and I’m all expectation.

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