Born on the air of the cologne-smelling dressing room with your name etched on the door — cloudy mirrors, open cases of face powder, a lonely sofa with nowhere to hide, except underneath us — we are. Ears drilled with shrieking are still straining to believe. My sheen still clings to the halls on the way from the stage.

A locked door is missing a name right now, I think, as roadies march through my distracted imagination commenting on a room that should be empty and open; the push-lock entered as an afterthought — who knew these doors had locks? — likely unnecessary, more out of habit. No substantial weight has been on this old black couch for years, that much is clear; poor groaning straining thing. I don’t think it expected this any more than you or me, sitting here always under the swell of old heavy breathing instead of this now new and persistent.

The last of the old sweat dissipates into the once dead atmosphere, into the ugly green walls — a paint job left from the seventies, doubtless, I think, as everything sinks into the background — and the replacement is long lost and once familiar, like the depth of your mouth. Speaking in tongues. Speaking in hushed whispers behind that door — which we locked, didn’t we, I’ve completely forgotten if we did press the push-lock, if there was one in the first place — which has etched another name and phrase into itself as ghosts of an occurrence. Only a product of the moment.

The door of later tonight will be bearer to your name only, unlocked, unmoving, few things out of place. I contemplate a fleeting prediction of the scene — although my mind is quite here, quite now, quite on your body — that lies before others’ eyes. Rouge so hastily ignored, smudges of color kissing the dressing counter. Bottles that brandish beer companies loitering unceremoniously in corners. An old sofa glances up from its position, unseen springs slightly stretched, nonchalant but grinning inwardly at its final use. The aftertaste of new sweat will still hang suspended in the hours after, lingering between layers of pillows.

All of this rushes past me, hazy, forgotten in an instant. I don’t even care if we locked the door anymore. Here, spontaneity gets the better of my logic, unexpected events result from my high, and we can fall in love for just an hour.