I remember you in my bed, my terrible Spanish making you laugh. The way your hands drifted over my body, an afterthought to the conversation we were engrossed in. I know she knew. But there we were, my thigh draped over your hips, my face cradled in your hands, devouring.

I remember the fight at work. Sniping at each other all night, two headstrong motherfuckers locking horns one too many times. “Meet me in the cooler. Now.” The way you shoved me against the shelves, grabbing me by the thighs and lifting me onto you. I know she knew. But there we were, my legs wrapped around your waist, hands buried in your hair. Devouring.

I remember the way you’d chase me through parties, watching me over the top of her head as she held on to you. I know she knew, like I knew it didn’t matter who or where I ran to. You’d find me. I just had to leave the room. It was against the window in your old room, the couch at Jason’s, the car when you insisted on bringing me home because I “shouldn’t be in a place like that.” You were always so hungry.

I remember the couch after your brother’s wedding. You scooped me up from the freezing guest room to cover me in blankets and spoon me until I stopped shivering. Your body was a brand burning behind me, our restraint trembling on a knife’s edge. As your hips rocked against mine I thought about the way you’d said “I love you” on the phone before coming back inside. She didn’t know. But there we were.