Everything.

And with that, that final push, that unkempt, hasty stroke in search of ecstasy, sex between this man and this woman had finished. Her upper torso gives up its rigidity, her back reclined at 90 degrees crumples to Earth where she finds sweaty, fatigued solace in the spoon of his chest. He does not want to move as he loves this new, post-intimacy position. He lies flat, eyes towards the sky, enjoying the tickle of her hair on his exposed body, his breathing is slowly returning to its normal rate of business, he wraps his arms around her waist. There is silence and both enjoy this. Both he and she enjoy just being close to another, particularly in this moment as everything just feels clear, refreshed, anew, emptied. No distractions from life or motions, just them with their heartbeats. He plays with her mid-length blonde-brown hair, he tries to make bunches.

You won’t let this school girl thing go, will you? She’s poking for a reaction.

He responds. Just got to get that uniform dry cleaned and we will be away.

We never wore any. Matter of factly, very Hermione Grainger esque.

You Europeans, so very laissez faire about social etiquette.

She likes when he is silly.

No, she giggles.

She looks up at him, her gorgeous eyes, wide eyed and bushy tailed. She looks up at him. The world begins and ends for him when he sees that smile and her eyes all bright and curious and steel-like. He can only offer a goofy smile in response.

No, of course not, that wouldn’t be proper.

So, you wore your own clothes?

Yes. She is absent mindedly curling the wispy spread of chest hair between her fingers. Always ready to expel an unfriendly grey from the flock.

I’m jealous. We were not allowed. I’d have loved the fashion show.

I can imagine you in your blazer and jumper and striped tie. So cute. So, fucking British. She laughs. I swear you are all stuck in this time warp, stuck somewhere in the 1800s.

Nothing wrong with tradition. It’s what this great nation was built upon. That and slavery.

She looks stern for a moment, boring holes that would melt the polar ice caps in his direction. Leave the serious, stupid talk for the serious, stupid time that is the rest of the time.

I’m hungry. He says as he attempts to subtlety stroke the outline of her back.

What would you eat? She says anticipating the imaginative answers they could come up with.

Mm, a flæskesteg sandwich.

Ha ha. She laughs and as she does, the chest vibrations tighten their bond.

Serious?

No. Peanut butter, some grapes. And just lay here.

Oh yes, that would be so great.

Eventually we would get uncomfortable.

She looked at him solemnly. No, never.

I love you. I love you too.

Jeg elsker dig. jeg elsker også dig.

They lay and try to bring each other closer even though it is physically impossible.She looks up at him, mischievious and impish.

I think I need a wee though now.

Ha ha. Okay, leave me.

Don’t be a drama king, you aren’t Timothée Chalamet.

Oh, I’d bet you’d like that, he’s only 178 cm…

Mmm, I just want him and that peach…

Right, off you get!

No! He he he.

Up she goes, leaving a present. Return to sender.

I’m sorry. As she walks bowlegged to the toilet.

It’s fine, just need a wet wipe.

I swear you can’t go anywhere without them.

They are practical and useful in every situation.

She lifts her eyes in mock disgust and plonks down on the toilet.

He is looking at her.She is looking at him.Silence but for the liquid passing loudly underneath her.

He laughs. She laughs.