MeyerBros --> EricMeyer --> DannyPose

a story by eric meyer and danny palmer (in progress)

It struck me then that the emotions welling within me could not possibly be related to him or the fact that I was lowering myself again into his sweet embrace. It's obvious now, I suppose, but at the time it felt so out of place. I felt so out of place. I don't know what he felt, besides my (can you refer to yourself as supple?) breasts, which he was feeling in not the most seductive way.

Which is not to say I didn't love him, at least from the time we met earlier in the evening through the removal of my outer layers and up till that moment of recognition. Recognition is a strong word. Epiphany is stronger. He was a strong man, or had a strong grip at the very least. Epiphany then.

It was raining, I think. Sprinkling. I have a vague memory of dashing to his car. His hair matted to his skull as he drove us to his house. Apartment. I don't remember windshield wipers. Maybe it wasn't raining, or it stopped, or I was watching his eyebrows move as he talked, bouncing with every exclamation and scrunching again for a smile. These things are distracting, the details. The rain isn't important. The bar might be. His hair was matted to his skull, one way or the other, with sweat or rain or something else entirely. I didn’t think to ask.

And he was saying something, I'm not sure what. Not that I wasn't paying attention. At that point I was still very much in love with his every move, from the over-active eyebrows to the under-sensitive hands. Somehow the details feel important only now, like I'm writing my first novel and every adjective counts. Welling. Sweet. Sprinkling, even. Or moist, feminine and moist. Moist like the touch of his... Good material if I were a writer: It struck me then... Welling within me... Throbbing... You get the idea, the details, the passion and whatnot.

I'm not a writer. I've written. Elementary school and I was obsessed with choosing my own adventures. I wrote one. It had a shoot-out and everything. very dramatic. Emotions welling. Love, passion, violence--

The problem with epiphany, especially, I suppose, if you are going to write a romance novel about it, is the overwhelming tendency to forget the details. There was a bar, matted hair, dancing eyebrows, welling emotions, rough hands and a vision burnt across the sky. Revelation. Epiphany. Loss of interest.

"I'm sorry?" He stopped. Sorry for what? Not the rough hand, I'm sure. He paused and tried to catch my eye. "Are you Okay?" Is that a question you ask while overzealously fondling someone's (supple) breasts? He did.

"You what?" I have a way with words.

"Are you Okay?" Again?

"Fine." What do you say? No, I had an epiphany, these feelings aren't for you. They aren't yours. "Thanks." I suppose.

"I love you."

"I-- Yes. You." I have a way with words.

"You what?"

"Yes dear."

<---end first 500 words by eric--->