In the house like a box, in our large, empty box, lay our numerous full boxes; the books in a box, the clothes in a box, the sounds and the sights and the scents in a box. On the bed like a box she lay, empty like a box, waiting to be full.
It was our last day in the house. Various (relatively unimportant, but whatever) factors had been impeding us from having sex for far too long, and only when everything (barring a few non-essential items) had been packed away did we - and it was quite sudden - end up kissing, a tangle of limbs holding us in place as our bare skin hissed together.
I didn't know, at that point, what the rest of the night might hold. How my lip would sting as I lifted by head from her wet slit. How her back would arch as her wetness spread across the crumpled sheets. How she would moan and cry and laugh and grapple at my back for support. How I would throb, pulse and press against her, all boxes faded from existence.
I didn't know, at that point, any of this.
But it happened. All of it.