It was not a side effect of the alcohol. It wasn´t purely hormonal. It was not the fucking fear of loneliness, though most surely everything added to the mix of erroneous and legitimate motives for the overwhelming feeling taking over them. It was the the universe, so self-contained.
The lovers´ young bodies were a prodigy to each other. The damp, firm body with sheen as rip fruit, flesh and bones so gracefully assembled and ready to override any limit there might be. Oddly enough, his favorite part of her was the same as her favorite part of him: the waist. And the rich sensation of modeling clay, pretending they were sculptures, caressing each other´s waist so delicately, yet intently, anxiously, thoroughly. And then, she loved to place her hands in the slight dent that outlines his buttock muscles. She loved the power of provoking his erection, and the feeling of it rising and hardening right by her sex, which was also responsive as they tenderly kissed.
He loved listening to the change in depth and rythm of her breathing, how the pattern changed as her heartbeat raced and her lips grew fuller, softer, watery. He loved the smell of her. And then, the eyes staring into each other with vast pupils, nibbling eternity. At first glance it seemed wild, but there would be found music, if anyone ever dared to listen closely.
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