I begin to hear my fingers tapping on the dirty, scratched glass of my phone as the pace at which I record my thoughts quickens. I hear the vital air drawn in through my nose that inflated my jittery stomach and filled my trembling lungs, exhaled in a great, burdened {whoosh}, weighed down by apprehension.

He and I are talking about a nervous subject. Sex.

The pillows shift with a soft, deafening scratch as I shift my uneasy weight. My right knee is strained by the contorted position in which I rest. My world is so quiet, but even the fan, usually silent, drones on with a slight, screeching whine. My ears prickle and strain for any other source of sound. This unfamiliar house reads my mind; with a slow, tired rumble, the air conditioning thunders to life. My fingers, the pillows, the fan– all fade to silence. My nerves fade as well. The matter is resolved.

The relationship perches atop steeply pitched roof, held in place by the strange closeness he and I share. Like a counterbalance, our clasped hands keep us aloft, but if either of us loosens the grip we will no longer disobey gravity. We must  tumble down opposite sides of the roof, never returning to that precious closeness.

The air conditioning turns off and I extend my right leg. The reverie is broken.

Before I resurface completely, it dawns on me how fragile our situation truly is. Do I tread carefully and postpone an inevitable fall, or do I revisit my familiar manner and bullishly storm ahead, paying no mind to irreparable damage done?