Their skin would be at a slow burn and they’d lay in bed so close Mateo could feel Alí’s chest heaving. He’d run his finger on Alí’s freckled skin and Alí would look back at Mateo, deeply into him, curiosity in his brown eyes; both boys with hard-ons.
They would kiss and whisper silly things - “I love you” - and those I love you’s would again be said but not until decades had gone, and they had grown up somewhere in the world as unsteady, wrinkled and foulmouthed servicemen.
Their memories of unabashed love swiftly take shape and then retrieve to a corner like scolded children.
How lustful and stupid the young are. How I long to go back there myself; regress and be a fool! Back there, when all is full of wonder. When undressing is frightening bliss; and the love that ensues, cataclysmic.
Tonight however, memories turn against Mateo. And yes, against an aloof Ali. Sweet memories of light, warm touches and great fucks; which once broke through their isolation, now rush in like enemies.
How to rescue them, I beg. With my own eyes filled with water, my heart booming with ire, to a goddess who seems to have left them in the grip. And me, alone to wrestle with my insatiable demons: longing and loathing.