What Is That Word?

He’s a careful lover, she thought. No, not exactly careful, what is it, what’s that word? Considerate? No. Caring? No, not just that. Consummate? Ah yes, that he is.

A consummate lover. Like a man learning a new language, he would explore her with an insatiable curiosity, defining points of intimacy she did not know she was ready to surrender to anyone.

He would ask her, ‘How does it feel when I do this? And this? This? How about this?’

He whose world was visual wanted to put words to sensations she can barely comprehend, much less express. She whose trade was words became guttural. She writhed and moaned under him, mute with pleasure.

She remembers the look on his face, the first time she took his hand, curving his trembling fingers to cup her soft, warm breast. He had no words for her, then.

Their touch inflamed them, like any new love. Theirs was a youthful passion in the first throes of ripening. It was most palpable when they were together—how his hands would linger at the small of her back, how she would lean towards him, intimating a union most desired.

In a crowd, they gravitated naturally toward each other. Her head would incline just so, her gaze seeking him out. His eyes would drift purposely, always toward her. They had a contained world that was apparent to everyone. This is how lovers are found out.

Consummate: to fulfill, utterly, completely. But no, that’s not the word she was looking for.

‘What is it?’ she wondered.
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