May. December.

She wasn’t anyone special: a friend of a friend who maneuvered her way through a crowd or a conversation with ease. That was it. She was what your mom would have called a social butterfly. And she landed next to you when it was time to settle.

Close and attentive, she made you feel at ease. And for you, that meant something. Or it meant enough. You kept her within inches. Before you noticed, your arm was around her shoulders, pressing her cheek to your chest. You forgot about the other people in the room.

Her hands and mouth were warm, even in December, even without gloves. You moved quickly but carefully with her. You didn’t want to break her or her limits but you didn’t want to be apart from her.

She smiled one of those big, genuine kinds of smiles that you only see once or twice on people before you planted a rush of kisses on her lips. Barely touching her, so you weren’t even sure she could feel through her coat, you traced her arms and shoulders, where later there would be a tattoo that was not dedicated to you. You smiled at her and she blinked and blushed, looking into the street. You wondered if this was something she did regularly.

And in your too-small room you talked to her about the city you shared and other pointless things. You told her about the last time you were in love. You didn’t tell her you had ever been in love. She didn’t need to know. She laughed at the wrong times, but kept her hands on your skin. You tried to control your shaking muscles but it had been too long.

You pulled air in through your clenched teeth feeling her hands on your thighs, her lips and her tongue. She hummed a laugh and looked up at you with wide eyes. You wanted to laugh as well, to be in on her joke, but all you could do was exhale shakily and cup your hand around the back of her neck.

You lost track of your breath and her eyes. At least you didn’t have to think about this. Broken syllables caught in your throat. You pressed your lips together hard, trying to make it last. You didn’t want her to let go.

But she did. She sat back and pushed her hair out of her face. Laughing, gasping, she passed her tongue over her teeth then bit them into a smile. You sighed and managed a breathless chuckle yourself. You started to thank her or ask her to stay but the words still couldn’t make it all the way out. So what she heard was half of a squeak, which started her laughing again.

She pushed her hands down her thighs and worked her way back to her feet. You watched her find her things without moving yourself. She smiled at you again, this time shaking her head as she walked backwards out the door.