Sanctified

You know when you daydream about something? That far off in the distance fantasy kind of daydream? The kind that is so perfect because it could be real but it never will be real and THAT makes you able to live in a constant state of semi-reality with your daydream constantly rolling like credits across any new sensory stimulus? How you're sure it never happened but on looking back to when it was a constant part of your day you just can't remember anything else but the daydream??

The entire year I had one of those. And it came to life last night. And it was absolutely spellbindingly appropriately sophisticatedly simply perfectly marvelously a spectacularly wonderful actualization of a non-planned spur of the moment whim of a chance encounter that started with an off the cuff comment and escalated in three days and thirty three emails to the actualization of all two intelligent and bored to distracting each other with flirting winks and walking too close in the hallway people can imagine to do with each other after two beers and an out clause in the new twilight hours that bestow this mountain town.

The best part... it was perfection. One hundred moments of the short evening have flashed before me, leaving my heart quicken and my feet twitching and my face tingling and my loins hot and my fingers cold and most of them were mental shots of him across the table from me.

The one that got me to close my eyes and be right with that memory was the kiss. There was no nervous what if buildup that even familiars can have. It was just me there and him there and my eyes closed to fully take in the scent of his skin and the feel of his lips and there was that undeniable connection of desire revealed at the exact moment of satiation. No slobber, no bad breath, no tongues even; no movement at all but the soft breeze in the trees and in my hair with the faintest whisper of a breath between us.
He realized what he was doing and it all changed before I could realize that a kiss can be a full body effort. I stood with my hands behind my back holding my purse and understood what love songs are made of; 16th century prose was inspired by; how aching can be an appropriate description of a state of the heart; how courting is the most despicably lost art; how dreaming has been elevated to my most important To Do of any day ever; instantly I knew that expectation would never be mine again while I was shocked with the notion that I could never want anything more than to have the perfection of that moment realized in every aspect of my life at least a dozen times a year.

And he is riddled with guilt today. As flitty and jovial and boyant I was this morning about the entire affair, I am now wretchedly overcome with longing that the kiss would have been the end of the evening. The rest had been unavoidable at the time and a divine reflection of the daydream that had carried me through so many days but in this moment I fear that I may never see him again in any setting and that our expression of want and lust and his ego boost and mine will be tarnished more on every rememberance and that he may never see the evening as I am sure to forever. It will remain unscathed on a pedastool away from the rest as an icon of my romanticism come alive and rewarded boundlessly and I will be abundently thankful to him for solidifying in me this part of my character that I have been trying to snuff out.

Tenderly weeping I leave this day... to go to the comforts of my newly adopted home and shower away the pangs of resentment that this was the only possible way to have my most perfect and undoubtably most fleeting romance... for next time we meet, if ever, this evenings weight will join us along with his satchel of self hate and it will not ever be more haloed. No regrets.