Black Heels.

My black heels you said you liked,

as my shoes click-click-clicked down the brick sidewalk.

We picked a simple bar-and-grille restaurant and talked about where we'd go dancing afterwards.

I stumbled over my feet once or twice before we finally got to the restaurant.

I was never sure if it was because of a natural predilection to clumsiness, my awkward heels, or because I knew we'd make love for the first time that night.

It all remains so unclear.

Like the sky above our heads that night, which was a milky black color, with stars you had to strategically squint to see.

You slowly slid the chocolate cake from your fork into your delicious mouth when we shared our dessert.

I think that's when I started to get wet. Already. So early in the evening.

It never went away, that readiness.

On our way back from dancing, you looked at me with broken eyes, eyes that should have told me that you were unwell.

You demanded of me, "take off your panties."

I didn't realize you'd touch me in the car, while driving across the bridge, me looking out at the water, trying to avoid your intensely penetrating gaze.

A gaze that made me pleasurably uncomfortable in every way.

That night when we returned to your getaway hotel after a night of reckless dancing,

I reapplied my red lipstick in the bathroom, knowing full well it'd rub off as quickly as it had taken to put it on.

You kissed me with fiery passion.

"What do you want?" you asked softly, sending a shudder down my spine to the tips of my toes.

"I want you inside me," I said, smudging my lipstick on your earlobe as I bit it lightly and slid my tongue in.

You groaned, and sex happened so fast I barely remember it now.

That's what happens when broken people cover up their ugliness.

The memories fade.

We never "made love" that night.

You have to care about someone to do that.