Now when I was still out looking for you, you were just like happiness, coveted and probably make-believe.
Then I found you, just in the wrong color, and a touch too big. But I made you fit.
I sucked you right up, an oyster still alive, straight into my belly for digestion.
God is looking extra carefully at us all on Good Friday. He wants to see us looking back up with clean faces and industrious hands. I was supposed to be fasting. Technically, the Catholics had done away with fasting as a concept years ago. These days, you're allowed two small meals, I think, but I decided not to eat, and that tonight, it was for God, and not for Ana. You ate a banana in front of me at 7pm and waved it under my nose. I fell from grace at that very whiff.
On Good Friday, God does not want to hear the seratonin strangled voice-boxes of children in new-delight, calling him down, into their nests, into their groins. You and me, we made God angry that night, and God always stays angry. At least until you apologise, one of the two things you would never do. On principal.
You lived in the living room, since the apartment only had two bedrooms between three inhabitants. The only door to the outside world led into this room, so we did a lot ducking under covers to hide our indiscretion. We did a lot of that anyway. I didn't quite understand the appeal of sex then. As far as I could tell, it was just you paying me a lot of attention. This was good. I learned to writhe and make myself pretty for your gaze. I learned sex-whispers. I learned to moan and contract. I learned how to tell when you were about to come, how to scoot out from around you, as you scooted out from within me. I learned how to pray to an angry God. I became a convincing actress. It seemed so real that you swore to that angry God, later, that I had never faked it.
But Leo, those were just my first lessons in lying.