By d
Date: 30 October 1997

love in a diner

They were making love.  They'd never really stopped, actually.  
Sitting in a little diner, miles away from home, they were 
making love.  

A song came on the jukebox, and the waiter came to clear their 
table.  She reached over and took his hand, and in that moment, 
she knew.  They didn't need to be naked, they didn't need to be
alone in a bedroom.  They were always making love. 

Everytime he looks at me, she thought, I die inside.  Drowning
in his eyes, she mouthed the words to the song on the radio, 
and silently willed time to stop.  

When she first saw him, she knew that something was there.  No
words are capable of describing the way she felt, but there are
no words necessary, either.  From the moment she looked into his
eyes, they were making love.  They just didn't know it yet. 

Now, only a few weeks later, they were sitting in a little diner,
still making love.  Her skin tingled at the memory of the look
on his face, when they'd consumated their feelings in a glorious 
tangle of limbs and sweat and baby oil.  And she squeezed his 
hand tighter, dying in the joy that his touch created in her 
heart. 

She realized then that she'd never made love to anyone before.  
And she made love to him, with her eyes, in that little diner,
miles away from everything else.