We get back from Pujol full and still a little tipsy, and you kiss me sloppily in the stairwell of our Airbnb. You thought our bartender was a little too cute, you whisper-growl into my ear, and I want to laugh, so I laugh, my hands pressed up against your stomach, as your hands slip under my shirt to grip the skin around my waist.
We still have all that beer in the fridge, I say.
Did we not drink enough tonight? you say, nuzzling my collarbone and moving your way up my throat.
It was all very slow and well-paced, I say, and I’m starting to feel sleepy and warm and ready to be inside. Let’s go in, I say, and I start up the stairs, moving backwards slowly, one step at a time as your lips return to mine.
We get up the first flight of stairs, pause on the landing to kiss more, our kisses getting heavier, needier, and I wonder in the back of my mind what might happen if someone in the apartments on either side of us were to open the door and see us. I don’t know how safe Mexico City is for us, though that hasn’t stopped us from holding hands and being affectionate in public. Luckily, we’re not naturally the over-the-top PDA sort — or is that something I shouldn't have to consider fortunate about us?
We make it up the next (and last) flight of stairs, and we have to break apart for you to fish the keys out of your pocket and let us into the apartment. It’s enough of a break that we’re more clear-headed once we’re inside, once we’ve kicked off our shoes and thrown off our jackets. We move towards each other to resume where we left off, but it doesn’t feel the same, so we laugh, pull apart, go to change into our pajamas instead.
Seriously, please recreate that sesame oil sauce for me. I want to eat it with rice and eggs.
Don't worry; I will. By the way, I like how, of all the food we ate, that’s what you liked the most, the hot sauce that came with one of the tostadas.
You gotta admit — that hot sauce really took that scallop tostada to the next level. It wasn’t your average hot sauce! What did they say it was — sesame oil, sesame seeds, habanero ash, some kind of chile?
Mije. From Oaxaca.
Did the bartender say that, or do you just know that off the top of your head?
Hey, I know my food! I can cook a little, you know.
I laugh, I know, pull the covers off the bed, and start throwing my pillows around. Between the two of us, you’re the one who makes the bed every morning, putting the pillows back where they’re supposed to be, shaking out the blanket, and folding it properly over the pillows. I leave my bed as I’ve woken up in it, the blankets a tangled lump on one side, pillows in perfect smush position. Going to bed is an active ordeal for me, as I only pull my blankets apart when I’m half-asleep and ready to roll myself back into a blanket burrito, only fluff my pillows so they can sink back into perfect smush position as I sleep.
You get into bed beside me, and we sink into the center together. This bed isn’t a particularly comfortable one, weirdly soft and weirdly hard, both at the same time, and very lumpy.
Thanks for having me here, you whisper into my ear, and I want to laugh because it tickles. That tickled, didn’t it?
How’d you know?
You tensed and made that I’m-trying-not-to-laugh sound.
I do not have an I’m-trying-not-to-laugh sound.
Are you kidding? If I had to ID you by sound, that’s the one that would give you away.
What! You lie.
Don’t worry. It’s a cute sound.
You don’t have to keep lying, but, oh my god, stop whispering in my ear! It tickles!
Like I said, you say and laugh, and I turn over to face you.
Maybe we should wash up, I say.
You’re getting sleepy.
Thanks for coming with me.
Thanks for asking me. Love you.
Love you, too. Seriously, though, babe, you’re falling asleep, and you should really brush your teeth before going to sleep because that’s kinda gross ...