You always met me in the gardens when you came back from a long trip. In your darkest suit of clothes. With your suitcase sitting there beside you as if you were at the train station instead of at home.

Over the years, you had learned that while psychological games did nothing to stoke fire in you, they wrought my ardor like no other little intentions could. I loved hide-and-seek. I loved to wait. I loved to angst and fret, and it whet my appetite for you to such shameful heights that I would nearly lose my voice and barely be able to squeak like a mouse, so thick was my heart with passion and want and thrill and love of you.

I tore open every letter you sent, eager to read which day you were due to arrive home; then I dressed and ran out the back door to the roses to see if you were arrived yet each night.

And now so did I run. My shoe caught in a dip in the path just as I was rounding the corner and I fell down, hard, to feel the incredible compactness of the earth beneath me give not a bit as I crashed into it, and before I could register my pain, my eyes flew open to search the bench for your ankle. But hands blocked my view as you drew me to my feet again and peered down into my face to see if I was all right.

I moaned because your fingertips were so tight on my upper arm and deep inside me where no other man could go. I was so tense and wound up for you, the stun of the jarring of the earth faded away and the earthiness of you ensconced me like a whirlwind, like standing in the eye of a hurricane, safe and sound. You gripped me so hard, I wanted to peel your fingers off, but the pain of it somehow turned to pleasure, and I felt my own wet tears on my cheeks touch your face as your mouth and mine opened instinctually, our lips touching in murmured moist, tender nibbles and nips in our erotic hellos.