The day had embraced her in all its voluptuousness, lost her in the folds of languor while the memories of long-faded caresses draped over the hours. His kisses, like velvet, hung close to her body, almost suffocating in the heat of summer but not without a taste of pleasure. She had slunk through the day like a tiger, a little weary, a little indifferent to anything but the thought of him. The afternoon was spent twisted in the sheets of her bed, reminiscing over their last parting. The cold barrier they had mounted between them had become intolerable, the heat underneath their frozen faces now leaving only smoldering coals that threatened never to subdue. She wanted him and not only did she want him, she wanted to tell him that she wanted him, she wanted to throw down the clothing of convention and self-righteousness, she wanted to emerge naked to him and reveal the longing in all its burning glory. She wanted to revel in their nakedness, to honor the electricity that their skin produced, to obey the law that drew them together so strongly that it could be likened to that of gravity.

Was it his absence, their withholding that had produced so strong a passion? The only other time she had experienced something of this intensity had been after a week and a half away from one another. Although, rightly speaking, he had not been away; she had dreamt of him lying close to her, dreamt of his fingertips and the crevices of his lips, the curls that framed the darkly handsome face. When they had first separated, she wanted to hate him, she hated him as much as she could, but even she recognized, was forced to recognize that the power of this desired hate stemmed from the very same source as her love for him.

What was wrong with being human? With honoring the gods that dictated that this intoxication of love exist? Who were they to disregard their decrees?

She planned to attend the lecture on Euclid's Optics nonetheless, almost hoping reason and the intellect would quiet her flaming body, douse her fiery nerves with a cool, satiating water. She wondered if her eyes would give her away, if her center of gravity had dropped to so low a point that the world would see from her way of walking how she ached for him. This would not stop her and might even make the evening more interesting, she mused, but first she had to leave her bed, brush her hair, and don the exterior that would contain the turmoil that still raged within, the tear between the surrender to the pains and pleasures or remaining unmovable in the upright posture of the intellect.