by Quin Browne
So entwined they resembled some mutant crab, two young men scuttle across the mat, each contributing to the illusion of wrestling. Their object was to not allow anyone to grasp the slight physical nuances that made it the lover's tryst it had become for them. Smokescreen in place, they were school rivals who took turns winning, no one the wiser. Touching, grunting, hands sliding over each other in sweeping caresses, bodies pressed together... the sport allowed them the freedom of movement over each other they sought. Locked in a hold, face to face, lips near ears, heavy exhalations of breath bracketed sighed love words. Cheers and smack talk are later exchanged from the windows of filled cars as they conga line from the parking lot, the combatants surrounded by supporters while they, themselves, sit in a quiet bubble; their silence put down to loss or exhaustion - never to a rending heart who has left its beloved behind.
Quin Browne is a writer who has yet to find that beloved who is "home." She blogs here.