At work, I can hardly stop smiling to myself. I dreamily shuffle books around as I remember the weekend: cooking dinner together, slow-dancing in the kitchen to Dean Martin, having three orgasms. It all seemed so easy. I had forgotten what it was like to be like that with someone - to laugh and fool around - without arguments, pained silences and simmering resentments. I think about The Library Officer placing a hand on my breast and saying, "I love you." Then he placed his hand on my other breast. "And I love you too," he said.
He has told me he loves me during sex and before ending a telephone conversation. He says it all the time to his daughters. He easily expresses his feelings yet this also removes the power from the sentiment, making it seem so casual. I've never said "I love you" without really meaning it and I wonder now whether there was a point to hoarding those words like a fancy teacup that you never use.
They're just words.
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