I remember. The first steamy kiss. Some scene played out on a anonymous screen. My hand lifting curls off your neck. My mind whizzing about when to hit those lips. I tried to spin slowly to whisper something. Your laughing when my pass at passion hit a snag. Your offering me a drink turning into a sticky mess.
But I think of this when you tell me to explain relations to our child.
Charm slides away as if rinsed by unseen rain. I see the crowd mingling by what should be startling. They filter blame, calling names trying to bite of the limbs of victims. Slowly they crawl back to the shadows dismayed by the limits on others attention.