I apologize for my delayed arrival. I was hoping to be there when you woke up. But instead I sauntered in around noon, right after you finished that third cup of coffee. I could see you getting that strange, fervent knot in your stomach as I approached. You weren't expecting me, and for that I'm sorry. I really am.

You thought, I'm sure, that there was a slight chance I'd drop by, but you weren't planning for it. No, you were playing it cool, getting in the shower and biding your time, not wanting to look like you were waiting for me. I certainly didn't forget about you. Quite the opposite, actually. It's very evil of me but I enjoy watching the doe-like fear wash over your pale little face. You know what's in store for you, don't you?

You bury your head in the pillow and tell me that I must go, that's it's too painful. You must learn that I will not leave you until I'm ready. You shouldn't be so guarded. I'm not like the others, not interested in college girls. I like mature women. I may have been late, but I do hope you'll indulge me in luxuriating in our time together. I could stay until Tuesday, maybe even Wednesday. You could call in sick tomorrow; you loathe Mondays anyway. And as I've proved this afternoon, I like to take it slow. I want for you to feel me in every inch of your body until you lose all sense of logic, until the usual minutiae of lazy Sundays goes completely out the window, until time loses all meaning. Mired in the depths of my sordid clutches, you're freezing and sweating, ravenously unable to eat, churning with the fibers of a million brilliant ideas, but unable to accomplish any of them because we're submerged in the vast universe of your tangled sheets, where we will stay until we cannot anymore.

I am not unreceptive to your complaints: it is true that we are not so good in public. We never know what to order at the coffee shop; we can't seem to organize ourselves enough to remember garbage bags from Target. But in bed, we're magic. You lie there helplessly, a sweetly diphtheritic Poe heroine, eyes luminous with primordial salts, as I play a percussive ode to our torrid power exchange atop your skull, yearning for a glass of water, anything to break the intensity.

You bury your head in the pillow and tell me that I must go, that's it's too painful. You must learn that I will not leave you until I'm ready. You may try to deter me, shut me out by watching episode after episode of Dance Moms as I lie next to you, but even the callous voice of Abby Lee Miller is not enough to take me away from you. Lest you think that there are no bounds to my devotion, I will admit, grudgingly, that one day you will wake up and I will be gone. I'm not an exclusive animal, but then, neither are you.

This I will say: I've only stayed longer with you as you've gotten older. We met when you were 17 (and no, I will not buy into the provincial attitude of you being “underage,” for you wanted it as much as I did) , and as much as you enchanted me, we had a few magic hours and then went about our respective days shortly after breakfast. We spent a lovely day together after your 21st birthday, one I will never forget. You were more vulnerable, more open to my powers then than you ever have been, and, I suspect, even will be again.

Yes, the fervent tangle of us fades, it is the very nature of these types of things, but I will be back. Our bond transcends husbands and jobs and weekend obligations. It is not concerned with minutiae of daily life; I know nothing of laundry and calling your mother. Until I decide otherwise, there is only you and me.

Laters, Baby.

Your Hangover