I saw him in serious deliberation over the yogurts and followed him to the cheeses. I found the depth with which he made each decision charming and wondered if he was the same way in the bedroom. I had to walk away though, the night was getting long. Waiting in line at the butcher he stood beside me as if trying to determine whether to get the fresh cut or the prepackaged meat.
I laughed and winked and told him I preferred my sausage fresh. He looked at me in confusion. I laughed harder. I offered to take him for tacos to make up for any hurt feelings. His eyes lit up and he quickly agreed.
We met every Tuesday for tacos and every Thursday for book club and on Saturdays, we slept in under the blanket fort we made Friday night.
Everything he did, every second of his life, was carefully thought out and planned. When he approached my body he already knew the depth of my sighs and the length of my tremors. By the time his fingers grazed my skin he already knew how my breath would fill his lungs and how my legs fit behind his knees.
We couldn’t see each other every night because each time we met it was a communion of two souls. You had to fast for three days to prepare yourself and ended up basking in the afterglow for forty-eight hours. It was work. It was life. It was love.
Until it wasn’t.
His fingers got overwhelmed with the knowledge of my skin. His lips found that they couldn’t keep up with all the different tastes of my desires. His eyes became shadowed in the darkness that was once a mutual lover.
He started to wither and die.
So I left him with a t-shirt I’d worn to bed, my half-empty shampoo bottle, and the sunshine I’d kept him from.