The first nights contained amatory samples of city life; the bottle of wine, the velvety linens, the intoxicated promises. Our anxieties were diffused through rapid codification. We cared very little if they multiplied in secrecy. In dreams, I survived a mismanaged assassination attempt, which willed spasms of self-doubt thereafter. She said security is not gained by the overt defiance of the self.
When we were apart, I imagined her in a throne presiding over non-terrestrial matters. I looked for subtle signs of agitation each time we reunited.
The encounters were constructed strategically, like war. We met at irregular times, we never dined at the same restaurant, and we welcomed with enthusiasm the refuge unleashed by darkness. In public, we performed the role of acquaintances, friends, and sometimes strangers.
Our power to ignite scandal transcended urban modalities. Her mother, the paragon of fear, held a disturbing semblance to the parental characteristics within my household. We were prepared to deny our truths at the first sign of psychoanalysis. We improvised lies like professional lawyers.
