I often lay next to her in complete angst. Our bodies emanating a warmth that laid dormant within. My ego assuaged but my conscience strained. She would give me unwarranted affection. She would make me feel as though I was special, but in reality I couldn’t be special. At least not towards her.

“I feel secure and at home when you hold me like this.”

It was the statements like this that provided the paradox. How could you feel at home in the arms of a stranger? I derived the conclusion that she really didn’t care who’s face belonged to the arms that she was encrusted in. She simply wanted warmth and a face. A face that she could entrust and love. A face that she could emerge herself in and find solace, in hopes of fleeing her exaggerate feeling of being alone.

Any face would do.

And for this moment, I just so happen to be that face. And who I am has little relevance to anyone.

–Least of all her. You see, her and I create a quandary. Not quite lovers for no intercourse has been exchanged. Although, that may be desired mutually by both parties. It has yet to occur and may never. Not quite friends for not enough information has been exchanged. From her to I a profuse amount of information has been exchanged. From me to her, not so much.