We are well versed in the language of strangers, you and I.

We are patient, for this is the art of waiting, the art of deliberation; a pause for the right moment to touch, the right moment for a soft smile.

We are unassuming, subtle, deceptively easy. No one suspects.

I practice sometimes, at night. I imagine the heat of your eyes and how no one will know the curling of my toes, the way my skin flames. Desire will unfurl in my belly, but no one will guess. I will hide everything and smile secretly in pride. Sometimes I sit and think up clever ways to touch you without notice; our fingers entangle as we pass each other, our bodies brush, my back hits your chest in carefully embroidered fright.

It is an accident.

We are innocent.

We pretend this isn't happening.

But it is, it is, it is and I swear in the utter silence I can hear your heart beating under my palm when your hips trap mine against the wall and I taste your lips with my tongue. My mind is swirling and none of this is real, none of this is real, but your fingers bite into my skin and you are sweet and soft and I drink you in.

We are hurried and frenzied and there is no time. We have waited long for this moment – a bargain – but I know it is worth it; it is always worth it.

When you leave you leave my lips stung and raw but I don't mind because here is proof, here is something I can touch and taste that tells me this is real, this is so real, even though you're gone, you're real.

When next we meet, there is nothing in my painted face to suggest a thing and my fingers only twitch towards you for a moment, just a moment.

We are well versed in the language of strangers, you and I.