The heat wiped a wet hand across their bursting skin as they entwined, each trying to match the rhythm of their partner. For them the suspension of time was betrayed as the noises of their passion from smothering inaccurate lips and bodies writhing in sheets mingled with the stultifying air and the call of the city streets through the open double windows. As life ground on as usual below, their lives, they had yet to notice, had changed forever. Friends cannot become lovers and remain friends. There is a divide, and it is more bitter than colycinthe when trodden on. The point of no return was missed in the fire and desire; consequences became so diminished as to be of no consequence. But the flames of passion can also turn out to be the fuel of rage and to this there are always the most serious of consequences to which lovers, when embarking on love never notice or take heed of. In the end, there is nothing mutual about pain and loss except the names and the democratic fact that we all encounter them as unintended and uninvited enemies.
Why not share?