You tell yourself that the hands on your body belong to the man you love. You tell yourself that it is no illusion. The eyes aren't dark...they're blue. The face isn't round...it's sharp. As you fall back to the sheets and he rises above you, you tell yourself it's right. It's true. It's meant to be.

And you lie. With every breath, with every sigh, with every moan, you lie. Every time you whisper his name, you lie. When your hips arch to meet his and his tender tears fall on your cheek, you lie.

You don't want to.

You want it to be true.

But "want" isn't the issue, is it? It's need. And you need to be held. You need to be cared for and cherished. And the man who cradles you now, after the sweetness of first sex, cherishes you beyond belief. You know that.

But it is not enough.

His hands aren't the right hands.

His eyes are dark, not blue.

His face is round, not sharp.

His name is Alex.

Not Kyle.

And you called out 'Kyle' that last time, didn't you?

Alex loves you. Alex will forget. In time.

But you won't.

September 2000.