She brought sushi.
I was there when she rang the bell, and we shook hands when I opened the door. I don't think we kissed cheeks. Yet. But hers were there, fresh-scrubbed and full and flushed from the walk in the cold. Her dark hair was cropped close and accentuated her huge eyes and natural brows. I may actually have sighed. She carried her sushi to the kitchen and I turned and said, to no one in particular, "She is the most handsome seventeen-year-old boy ever."
I flirted, talked, joked and escaped for a smoke with some of the other attendees. I was, I realized, distracted. I ate sushi.
I watched her, sitting in the low chair, leaning forward and listening to some other person going on about some other thing which couldn't possibly have been as interesting as the things I wanted to tell her; she smiled at them and nodded, encouraging.
She's quiet, but sure of herself, I noted. I am built similarly, being undemanding, yet consistent in my desires. I know what I want, and I am patient.
I was glad when she started and looked at me, come upon her from behind, my hand just touching her shoulder, bending over to speak into her ear, our faces close. She smiled and said, "that sounds promising" when I suggested she come home with us.
Seven months hence and I can't shake the strength of her body pressing down on me or the feel of her torso behind my legs as she held my ankles up to her shoulders and rocked into me with my own strap-on. Her voice coming out of space encouraging me, relaxing me.
But that thing that I want to taste again–the recipe I forgot to get–is the all-encompasing, never-letting-me-go embrace she kept me in for a very long time after the slow withdrawal of her fist from my body.