By Beth Cortez-Neavel
There are people falling in love all around you. On the plane: eyes light up as they talk about their home town and the similar conference they are leaving it for. In a class: sharing furtive glances between lecture notes, touching each other lightly with the eraser ends of their pencils. On a park bench: she is resolved not to become a pigeon lady and he is resolved to meet less women in bars. In a bus: the ride is always bumpy and he was lucky enough to fall into this gorgeous stranger. At the local pool: he thinks that lifeguard is just so dreamy in those tiny red shorts. In the waiting room: the receptionist gives him a wink as he approaches, â€œNice glasses,â€ he says. At the thrift store. On the soccer field. At book club. By letter. On a cruise. On the tennis courts at the local country club. In the Sydney Opera House. At a 24/7 coffee shop. On the Charles River.
They are falling in love around me; sharing this same secret of falling in love each day each moment each second each breath and each footstep. Falling in love when they wake up to see their lover, hands clutching the sheets, heart thumping deep in their ribcage, chest rising and falling to the sound of the ceiling fan spinning endlessly round. Maybe they snore, maybe they donâ€™t. Maybe tomorrow is their 20th anniversary, maybe they met last night.
They are falling in love all around us, and they are bursting with it. Hands revel in the electric touch of fingertips against neck, lips, eyes, nose, nipple, cheeks and palm. Hearts bubble with joy at meeting and tear ducts weep at thoughts of parting and mouths scream at fights that scare even the cat. And lips touch tender and passionate when the screaming stops and laughter starts when the fight is forgotton.
They are falling in love all around her and him, and him and her, and him and him, and her and her. They are falling in love with the way their nakedness slides across each other. They are falling in love with the sound of each otherâ€™s footsteps and each otherâ€™s farts. They are falling in love with the way they put their lips to his cock and her clit and the way it tickles so good. They are falling in love with the way he cooks dinner and how she canâ€™t make microwave mac and cheese to save her life. They are falling in love with how he forgets to take out the trash some Wednesdays, and how she knows only three songs on the piano. They are falling in love by watching movies together and by abandoning plot progressions for sloppy make-outs. They are falling in love when they are away from each other and they are falling in love when they have been with each other five days straight and canâ€™t stand it anymore.
And they are falling into love in secret and shout-out-loud. They are falling into love like it is a great feather comforter on a Tempur-Pedic mattress on a four-poster bed. They are falling into love like its Eight Days a Week and I Want to Hold Your Hand. They are falling into love without looking both ways and without using the crosswalk. They are falling like itâ€™s an hour past curfew and they donâ€™t care. They are falling like they are 11 months old and they decided to take their first steps early. They are falling in love like people have fallen for centuries; like courtesans and queens, like vestal virgins and Roman soldiers, like football stars and cheerleading co-captains.
They are falling like onion rings and cheeseburgers. They are falling like oatmeal and orange juice. They are falling like roti and vindaloo. Like eggrolls and hot and sour soup. They are falling in love like chocolate-ice-cream-and-banana-split sundaes. They are falling like waterfalls and paint thinner, like apples and appaloosas. They are falling like fishing lines, like guitar picks, like Kentucky Durby jockeys. They are falling like they are sky diving, snowboarding, running, swimming and base-jumping. They are falling like they are flying.
They are falling: In the teacherâ€™s lounge: their heads close together as they discuss lesson plans and the latest episode of â€œThe L Wordâ€. In a living room: he is home from college for dinner, and to his surprise his little sisterâ€™s friend is all grown up. Under the Eiffel Tower: â€œEven the clichÃ© can be just the perfect moment,â€ he says as he bends down on one knee. In an online chatroom: she finally logged on to figure out the cheats to Soul Caliber IV; he finally found a girl who likes video games and boys with glasses. On a bed. At the local hookah bar. In a hammock. At the grocery store. In line at the movie ticket counter. On a rope swing by a secluded river bend. At Fenway Park. On a picnic blanket. Into each otherâ€™s arms.
They are falling, and they canâ€™t get up.
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