You have your hair tied up in a loose bun, and coiled tendrils spill out, tickling your cheek, obscuring your brownish greenish hazelish eyes from looking at life. Outside, summer is cooled off by a rainstorm. On the canvas awning outside my door, we hear the tap-tap-tap of the raindrops, and cement below turns grey like the skies from the rain. The window pane becomes foggy from our breaths, syncopated and heavy. You wipe a pane with the bottom of your fist, clearing it to gaze out of. I look over at you and see the greyness and the greens reflected in the whites of your eyes. You catch my glance and smile at me. I don't know what it means so I look away, into my own breath, in the window that's greyed like the evening outside.

The rain starts to bore us, so we face each other, not quite staring but not really blinking either. We wait for the food to arrive, listening to the music from the stereo and the tap-tap-tap outside. You confess that rain sounds different, more solemn, on glass windows than on canvas awnings. I concur, and change the subject. I talk about how the door to my bathroom is narrow, and it's good that I'm not big and fat so I can fit through it. You don't remember how the bathroom door is smaller than it should be so we go into my bedroom to look at it.

There, you remark that you've never seen my bed made before. It's true, I never do make it. You ask me why it's made and I don't know why. Yet I do know that I hope hope hope to unmake it with you, blankets and comforters strewn on the floor with our clothing, forgetting everything for the minutes of perfect irrational bliss. The bed, my bed, is mine only. It's soft and warm and comforting like yours is, you say, just lacking the silky bedspread you slide off each night, but with the same tears that dampen the sheets, white like the pools your eyes swim in. You spread out your arms to measure the normal-sized bedroom door. It's this wide, you tell me, and you try to keep your hands the same distance apart as we walk the steps to my bathroom. Holding your hands out like that upsets your balance, and you nearly tumble to the creamy carpet along the way. The door is open, and I close it, commenting that I need to clean the bathroom soon or else it walk away on me. You giggle, keeping your hands apart like that, and say you've not cleaned yours in even longer a time. Whatever, that's not important now. The only thing that is is the size of my bathroom door, which is smaller than normal. You walk up to the door, and put your outstretched hands up to the side of the door, by the hinges. Your right hand rests firmly against the corner where frame meets door and your left swings around, trying to keep the same distance from the right as it meets the door.

But it doesn't meet the door, it lands squarely six inches to the left of it. I'm right and I smile. You pull your hands back, as if shocked by electricity in the wall, and look at the door, confirming that it is too narrow. What else are you thinking? What it would be like to shower in there the morning after? What color toothbrush you would keep in there? If I'd have to be reminded to put the seat down? I can't figure it out, I can't see your eyes. I stand beside you, but you've turned your head to gaze at the door. I lean against the wall, casually, inviting you to pin me against it, smothering my mouth and my soul. Your head bobs up and down, and more coils spring out from the loose bun. You turn to me, stare at my pose, and smile. I see one of the tangles down over your eye, and beat you to it. You reach up to move it but mine's there first. I had been waiting to do that for years it seems. I don't let go of the strands, I clutch them delicately for dear life. You wrap your long, slender, cold fingers around mine around your hair and I do let go of the tendril, and intertwine my fingers around yours. You pull my hand down lower on your face and I cup your cheek. You step toward me and close your eyes. I freeze, but I keep my eyes open. The sounds I hear are our hearts, our breathing, and the silence otherwise around us. I can't hear the rain anymore, I just hear us. You open your eyes up again and grin, silently jokingly invitingly. I move my hand around to the back of your head, into the flames, and pull you in.

It is the best kiss I've ever had. It's slow, and we both melt into it. Our lips pry each other's open and our sounds become one. We have one heart, one pair of lungs, and one soul at this moment. It is perfect and soon enough it becomes even more perfect, even more active, and even more quiet. I become more aware of not only ourselves, but what else is around us. I finally close my eyes and see your chest heaving up against mine. I hear the tap-tap-tap again, it swirls around with the thump-thump-thump and forms a sound I call perfect.

My prying hands have undone your hair, and soon we are drowning in its crimson depths. Curls tickle my nose and I abruptly stop kissing you. You pull back, shake your head to direct the hair back behind you, and stare at me again with your eyes. I see a light, a recognition, something new. You blink them and lean back in to finish what's started when all of a sudden there's another sound.

The doorbell. The Chinese food is finally here. You laugh, and I peck you on the cheek on my way to the front door, but I don't stop to see your reaction. You follow me a few steps behind.

After we get settled with the chopsticks and soy sauce we start the movie. I've seen it before but you haven't. We each drink imported beer, and the first one makes you giggly, laughing and making jokes at things that aren't funny. I finish my second beer as you finish your first and laugh with you even though it's not funny to me. Something's gotten inside of you and the beer brings it out. Drunken abandon beckons us.

When the movie's over we sit and I debate myself. Should I invite you to stay? Should I kiss you again? We talk about the movie, more sober, more intellectual. The actress who was also in the last movie we saw, the actor who's also in the movie we can never seem to find. Before we know it, it's midnight and we're both tired. When I ask if you're able to drive home, you nod and I notice that you're not giggling any more. Awkwardly, I stand in the way of the door, preventing you from leaving without kissing me goodnight. Somehow, however, you manage to leave. I'm stuck alone, drunkish, listening to the lingering rain and the whir of the tape rewinding in the VCR. I channel surf while waiting for you to return but you never do and the next thing I notice it's half past one and my eyes are gluing themselves shut with exhaustion. I stumble into the bathroom with the narrow door. I look at myself in the mirror, hair a mess and eyes glazed over from everything. I've never seen myself so sad, so I turn off the light and go back into my bedroom.

My bed is still made and there are no blankets or clothes thrown roughly on the floor beside it. I inhale to yawn but exhale a burp. Embarrassed, I excuse myself and realize there's no one to apologize to. I am alone. The lure of the bed pulls me in, but it's the last place I want to be at the moment.