His arm squeezed my ribcage, his cheek pressed against my chest. And, he told me, "I've missed this." ( referring to cuddling with a woman. He told me he hadn't had a girlfriend in two years. With what I know now, I believe it. ) His voice was warm and simple and sweet. There was not a trace of guile in it, or the bottled-up rage that I would much later see that he carried around inside him. For that night, this was all there was. I let it fill me like morphine and lull me into a sweet haze. It's the sort of drug I could live on, but I know better than to think it represents anything substantial or real.
This story comes to an abrupt an admittedly lame ending. But, maybe that was because it had no real plotline to begin with. I'm not sure why it's worth talking about or even thinking about, now. I used to be an adrenaline junkie. I was addicted to feeling that crazy, larger-than-life passion. This was more getting used to and getting attached to someone gradually. It was just an ongoing, incoherent jumble of events.