The heat of our passion, cooled by the refreshing breeze which, from the open window, seeped in through the curtains, gradually dissipated. Krystena shivered and cleaved closer to me, her hand, pulling at my chest, indicating that she wanted me to hold her tighter. I reached and pulled up the soft sheets and draped them over her shoulder to cover her thin frame and then quite happily obliged her wish, my arms closing around her. She sighed and kissed my neck.

With all the things that were going on my life, I had one for which I could be endlessly grateful and that was her. How it was that she had ended up with me, I strived to conceive but, at any turn, I failed to arrive at a deeper understanding. It was my habit, through constant questioning, not only of myself but of those around me to truly comprehend motivations and reasonings for choices made – you could call it a coping mechanism where, in my own person, I found too many gaps and unknowns which despite my best efforts, failed to give up their secrets to my questioning self.

As for me, I knew well enough – without excessive Q&A – why I wanted her in my life. Looking back, I almost could not believe that it had already been six months and we were still both as happy as could be. I gave her an additional squeeze and she made a contended sound, her head resting with eyes closed on my shoulder.

I had recognised in her from our first encounter – that moment when our paths, the very same paths that take us from birth to death, had crossed – a quality not better identified; as though there resided, in her, another dimension which allowed overseeing the mundane from an entirely different perspective and, therefore, imparted to her the understanding that, while sought, remained elusive to me. That, of course, was over and above the delicate body that allured and tantalised me in moments such as this. However, now that we were apparently both satisfied and engulfed in that endorphin-laced peace, I allowed my mind to range over other topics.

“Sometimes, I don't know why you put up with me.” The words were out of my mouth before the thought had been completed. In the periphery of my vision, with her face so close to mine, I saw one large eye snap open, blink, and focus.

“Why do you say that?” came the sound of her voice and I felt the warm pulses of her breath against my neck.

“I know that I can be more than 'a bit' difficult to deal with on occasion – well, more frequently than that.” I craned my neck to bring her face into my field of vision because I loved to watch her eyes move and appreciate the expressiveness that appeared there.

“I only put up with you because you aren't a complete dud in bed,” she teased and began to laugh.

“I do take notes for study purposes,” I said and joined in laughing with her. I gave her another squeeze – just for good measure. Krystena shifted and then rose to lean over me, her breasts pressing against the front of my chest and leaned on one elbow. Her gaze was hypnotic and powerful, fixed on my face.

“Why do you think you are 'difficult'?”

“I don't know. I suppose it's because I get so frustrated with what I see going on and I think – correct or incorrect that I may be – there is so much that is just wrong. I want others to acknowledge that, too. I don't know. I guess I want people – I hate that term – each one,” I corrected myself, “to wake up and be more aware.”

“That is exactly my point, lover.”

I looked at her, confused.

“What is your point?”

“I love you for what is in here,” she said and her hand moved, coming to rest on my sternum where, below, my heart beat was strongly felt.

“That's just my heart, Krys,” I answered her, still not following the line of reasoning.

“What you do and what you say is a representation of the longings of your spirit.”

“You know I don't believe in a spirit, love.” I knew that she was aware of my strictly earthbound mentality but, nevertheless, I feared offending her own sensibilities. My hand trailed over her lower back. She gave me a kiss and began speaking. The sound of her voice and the quality of her words were like an elixir to me.

“You can view things any way you wish, love,” she reminded me. Her voice was low and her lips very close to mine.

“How you chose to appreciate and contextualise the world is now - and always will be - what personally works for you. Your views are as valid as anyone else's.”

I nodded and she continued.

“That does not not negate that there is something inside of you – call it 'spirit', 'soul' or 'psyche' – that drives you, your wants, needs and desires. These things can only be expressed in your thoughts and actions.”

Again, I had to accept the essential truth of her monologue.

“We are, however, flawed and imperfect – each and every one of us. So the thoughts and actions which come from us are only representations, equally flawed and imperfect, of our true desires which come from the spirit.”

“So what you mean...” I began.

“I'm not finished, yet,” she corrected me.

“Oops.” She smiled at my expression and then forged ahead.

“When I say that I love what is here,” again she patted my chest with her long, thin fingers, “what I truly mean is that I love the man which you aspire to be – that which resides within you and which you express in your moods, your writing and painting and even in your frustration because all of these things express – even though flawed by imperfection – the truth of what you are as a person.

“No one should ever be judged by single actions because what we express is only an approximation of the truth within us. Understanding is arrived at only through the sum of the person's expression which reveals who they truly are.”

She stopped speaking but continued to fix me with her eyes. Her head was tilted as though questioning my thoughts.

“So what you mean,” I conjectured, “is that we can never be all that we are?”

“I don't know,” she answered, cryptically. “Becoming – realising – what you are, is the point of your own personal journey. Enjoy it.”

Then, having satisfied herself of having communicated her point, she collapsed over me and began kissing my neck again.

I was left between wondering if I was up for another round and where my own journey was taking me or even if I was sufficiently aware of the journey at all.

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