I remember my arms around Georges on the motorcycle.
We had been in the mountains for five days, and we required Oreos. The closest store was twenty-five miles away, but sitting behind him as the wind tore through my loose clothes, distance didn't matter.
We met the night before at the camp. It was late, and the stars above the New Mexico mountains were brighter than any I had seen in ages. He shared a bottle of wine and laughed in his broken English as we lay back and stared up into the Milky Way.
Sitting behind him, I remembered a kiss and a touch. His face scratched mine, and his hand moved awkwardly to the buttons on my jeans.
"Let me try?" he said, leaning in and taking me into his mouth. I lay back and took another sip of his wine as he played and explored, each breath full of joy and surprise.
We couldn't speak as we rode, and I suspect that he might have avoided it if we had. But as I wrapped my arms tightly around him while the desert wiped past us, I remembered his foolish grin after he made me come. We finished the wine, and just before we fell asleep, he leaned in and kissed my cheeks three times.
"Tomorrow we'll take my bike. I want to try American Oreos. Okay?"
"Okay," I told him as I snuggled up next to him and fell asleep under the stars.
The farmhouse in the south of France was more beautiful than I had imagined. We haven't spoken much in the few years that passed, but a few letters were enough. In those days, that was all I needed to travel halfway around the world.
She kissed me three times on the cheeks when I met her. Her hair was as blonde as May, and she spoke not a lick of English. He told me her name was Céleste, and she was to be watched out for. He winked when he said it, and I blushed and looked away.
We drank wine with dinner and more afterward. Georges looked older but still kind, and I remembered the wind and the desert. When I kissed his cheek, he moved away and told me it was time to sleep.
In the middle of the night, I found myself in the room of Céleste, who left a light on and the door open. I shut it behind me, and she pushed the sheets down to reveal her naked body. Her kiss was warm and eager.
We moved from tender to frantic as we made love in the darkroom. She bit my lip as she sat above me, and when she came, she shoved three fingers into her mouth to keep silent.
Céleste shooed me out before the sun rose, but she kissed me at the door. I couldn't sleep as I tasted her on my tongue and smelled her hair with each breath.
I think of them both at different times.
His full lips and curious tongue come to me with the night sky. I remember the taste of the sacred Oreos as we sat by the side of the road, devouring the box like two starving men.
I can smell the leather of his jacket and feel the rumble of the road beneath me when I close my eyes.
On warm summer nights, when the breeze blows through the window, I dream of Céleste. I can see her standing outside in the morning sun, the shower splashing her naked body. I remember her smile and her French that I never understood.
She laughs and splashes me, and I wonder if I can fall in love so quickly. Her blue eyes sparkle, but his voice calls me back to the house, where he once again reminds me to watch out for that one.
They both kiss me goodbye on the cheek. Three times. I move on to Italy, where I meet someone new.
But I remember them both, and I clutch those memories to my chest. They're visceral and holy even though they're fleeting. But each time I close my eyes and let myself fall backward, I fell in love, and I feel loved.
Time is a poor mechanism by which to judge, I tell myself as I sit down to write a letter. It tells us nothing and means less. I know that beauty comes more easily in singular moments, and I know brevity saves us from the complications of what might come next.
But I also know that I love Georges. And I love Celeste. And that can never be undone.
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