I stepped onto the elevator today in the lobby, ready to relax in my room on the 18th floor. A young scruffy hipster couple stepped on with me, the belly of the elevator open for us to spread out, but they pressed close together.

I could feel the tension. The heat. The energy.

There were no words. They pressed the button for their floor, I pressed 18. The doors closed. Our eyes peered up to check the status of our ascent. No words in that small space. The mirror at our backs. 

They didn’t even touch. They barely looked at one another. 

I’ve been them. Dan and I still can be when we get that surprise moment alone, in a space not quite public, not quite private, when we are so aligned, and we just want to escape to somewhere quiet, with a closed door.

When you have that heat between you, anywhere you go can become electric.

This young couple, they were nothing special. Sure, everyone’s attractive and unattractive in their own ways, but nothing to write home about.

And I got to thinking about how odd the human body is, how strange this thing called sex can be.

We come in so many shapes and colors and forms. Lumpy and hairy and disproportionate.

Graying hairs. Hairs sprouting where we just don’t want them. Scars and scabs and years of near misses in evidence on our skin.

And yet. When you are attracted to someone and they to you, the flaws and details disappear. You don’t see lumps and folds and sags. You see fire.

When I step back to think about what it is we do when we have sex, I almost start to laugh. In the movies, it looks so much prettier than in reality. There, it doesn’t sound like grunts and groans, it’s hot moans and igniting.

The elevator ride was quick, as you can imagine. The couple stepped off onto their floor and walked quietly, not so fast, toward their room. The doors shut. I rode to floor 18 alone.

But a whiff of the tension remained in the hold of the elevator with me. I know what it’s like to be them. They deserve every minute of it.

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