I say that I am visiting friends- friends I met years ago while travelling and have who have kept in touch.
I cannot say that we knew of each other even longer than that, that we had met online and knew much about one another before we ever got together.
I say that the conversation is interesting, that I find their perspectives fascinating, and their advice helpful.
I cannot say why this is so- that the conditions of anonymity put most small-talk topics off limits, making it is far easier to dive right into more familiar, if much deeper, thoughts. Such habits are hard to break, even when no longer necessary.
I say that we chatted away late into the night, as words and wine flowed freely and kept the desire for sleep at bay.
I cannot say that we spoke of love, of sexuality, of eroticism.
I say that she was at work most of the time, leaving he and I alone together.
I cannot say how trusted I feel, that she is comfortable with this- especially given our shared interests and usual topics of conversation.
I say that it feels very surreal, going through the simple motions of doing the shopping and preparing a meal with these people whom I’d have never expected to befriend.
I cannot say that there is intimacy in these daily tasks, I cannot explain how it feels to be in the same room with someone that I’d admired from afar, that I’d spent months working up the nerve to contact.
I say that we had a quiet weekend, lounging around the fire, sipping tea, and quietly working.
I cannot say that it was one of the most exciting things I had done. To be in the same room, writing right beside the man who had first inspired me to begin, to exchange thoughts on submission with the woman who first showed me how to voice such things.
They say it sounds lovely.
I agree; it is true.
But they have no idea how much of an understatement that could be, or how thankful I am to have these secrets.