when they invade you back from “a quick one” and the verbalatio debris is more than just background noise. Casual tradefloor entertainment. You get to feel that, and taste the naughtiness.
Casual smiles, writing their dance not just on the blue surface, but in the air as well. A fluid intensity interspersed with moments of abandoned “post orgasmic” breaks, gasps on the floor
“…the reality is this image of her has so deeply connected to my neuronic mapping of feelings or sensation of love, that despite all rational reasons, or true attachments to others or crazy total love stories I’d go through, she somehow peeps out of the pits and shows up again in my dreams. Her face, her demure, voice even is the mask of intense…”
There was a thin difference between our world and theirs, we came around each other touching our hands and seeing each other’s faces, but passing by one another. As if the light of our each universes would find acknowledgement in each other’s gaze, but somehow reflect to remain in each respective sphere, with no crossover. Only the sound and the smell would travel through weaving a common thread.