How Do You Know When You’re In Love?
Carter and I had sex at the beginning of today in the engine room first floor. It’s at the base of the building, off the carport. I’d gone searching for him, cracked out the entryway and discovered him there, the room dark and cool, his shirt off, the giant mechanics of our building behind him. It was harsh, enormous metal framing his tan, muscular skin and I couldn’t prevent myself from going inside, my hand pulling the entryway close behind me, my heels uproarious on the floor. I’d put on a red sundress toward the beginning of today. I believe that ended up on the floor. I know I ended up against the wall, the concrete cool and hard against my back, his hands holding me up, under my ass, the grunt of his pushes hot in my ear. When I came, I shouted and the holler became mixed up in the uproarious thunderings of the machine. When he came, it was sudden, his grip on my skin tightening, and I felt the shiver of him just before he pulled out.
I believe I’m falling in love with him. It appears like an odd thing to think. It appears to be something you ought to know, without uncertainty. In any case, for me, it feels fundamentally the same to how I felt with Vic. What’s more, was that truly love? On the off chance that it wasn’t love, it has beyond any doubt stuck around for quite a while, brought on me a considerable measure of pointless sadness. What’s more, if that is love, then that implies that I loved Vic. Furthermore, now I love Carter. Is love that successive? That unspecific? Since those two men, they couldn’t be less similar. Alternately perhaps that is the reason I am falling for Carter — on the grounds that they are diverse and I’m gaining from my missteps.
The previous evening, I informed Carter about my endeavor to call Vic and the disaster that it had ended up. He’d tuned in, discreetly, his eyes obscuring when I didn’t sugarcoat the consummation and let him know precisely what Vic had said. How he called him insecure. How he needed to meet around evening time. Carter had turned away, a heartbeat in his jaw ticking, then back at me.
“I would prefer not to force you to meet him. That wasn’t what it spoke the truth.”
“I know.” We’d been on his love seat, my feet in his lap, his thumb rubbing tender pressure into my soles. I had laid my head on the arm of the couch and took a gander at the roof. “Furthermore, I think I ought to converse with him. Just to get the truth out there. Just so there is most likely, in his brain, that we are over. I need all that he’s doing to just stop.”