trying too hard

It was still almost daylight when we got in, settling down on her couch to watch the sun sink behind the trees with a bottle of red wine, trying to push down the feeling that this, too, is fleeting. All the day's laughter and festivities seemed fleeting now, and there was just us: her, me, the wine, the sunset. And it wasn't long before the sun had set and it was just dark now, and the streetlights and the leaves cast dancing shadows on the wall, and our moods had darkened too. By the time the light fled we were talking about our regrets and what we'd have done different, about today, about everything.

About the time I was talking about how I was afraid I had one shot and I blew it, her hand found mine, or maybe mine found hers, and then her head found my shoulder and my lips found her lips and we both found the floor. We kicked over the last of her wine and froze there, her on top of me, me ready to apologize, when she started laughing. "It's fine," she said. "Really."

"Shouldn't we get some paper towels or--"

"Let's just shut up. Just for tonight."

It would, she observed, still be there in the morning.