There was no room in the bed and no room on the couch. So we went swimming.

The tub was hot—too hot, almost—but none of the buttons worked because it was before dawn. We were breaking the rules. I liked that part.

Gingerly tipping toes then thighs and up, we slipped into the water, so thick with heat it seemed to be on the verge of becoming something else. We started to tell each other stories. And then soon enough in slow motion he slides over and tries to kiss me.

Actually, he kissed me. And I let him.

But it felt like there was a pause in there, maybe because the last thing I wanted to do was lose track of the taste of you. But there were some things I was going to have to forget and I knew it. (“Were the waters of Lethe this thick? Is this what happens when memories drown?”) (This is what I was thinking.) (Did I mention I’d been drinking bourbon all night?) (Did I need to?) And he was beautiful and kind and there was no room in the bed and no room on the couch. So I let him kiss me and I kissed back. And… and it was good.

“I should have kissed you an hour ago,” he said.

I just giggled and went right back to the kissing. Because the kissing was good and my thoughts were inappropriate but not in the right way. (“But I met you less than an hour ago!”) (See? You would have gone back to the kissing, too.)

He tried to push forward but I slipped away. “Oh no,” I said. “I’m reformed.” This time he laughed. “You know, you could be the Little Mermaid.” He is kissing my thighs. I find this to be funny, too. I find all this to be funny.

“You know, the Little Mermaid never gets the guy.”

“What?”

“In the… not in the Disney story. In the real story. The prince doesn’t fall in love with her and she turns into sea foam.”

“Jesus. That’s grim.”

“Hans Chri…” (Stop it, self. Stop it.) “Yeah. Grim. But also better that way. Maybe. Maybe.”

“Why is that better?”

There is a rumble. The jets have decided to come on. Bubbles, bubbles everywhere. I drop down below for the first time and for once I make a decision.

Surfacing. “It must be 6 now.”

The suds are so high I can barely tell, but I think he nods.

“That means the trains have started.”

It’s beginning to make sense, but he still doesn’t believe me. “Oh, that’s right. You’re ‘reformed’. “

I slip out of the water and out of his clothes and into a towel. “Sort of.”

“Wait! At least… let me make you breakfast?”

I smile. He is sweet, but I am not. “Not today. But thank you. Thank you.” I find my legs again. “I like it here, but it isn’t home.”

Not so long ago, I had zero clue about the potential held by text messaging. I preferred actually talking to my friends, and if I was going to send an email— even (or often) a drunk email— it was damn well going to be four pages long. I couldn’t stand it when someone had their Blackberry on the table during a night out (okay, I still feel that way), and I’d make a horribly self-righteous show of turning my phone off and dropping it in my purse, not to be looked at again (until I went to the bathroom). (ok. I still do that.)

This was before I moved to New York, where The Culture of Text Messaging is a different thing entirely. I repeatedly ran up huge charges with four page texts, made more frequent bathroom trips… sometimes, I’d even check my phone IN PUBLIC. IN FRONT OF PEOPLE. OMG. Of course, I’d feel okay about it. Because they’d be doing it, too.

Hell, I even had entire relationships based on texting. Some began with an intriguing message or two, and once it even turned out that the boy in question and I had incredible text chemistry… but in person? Not so much. So we’d stay up all night teasing each other with banter, making great, flirtatious shows of our wit… and our ability to come up with excuses not to actually speak in person. It was actually a pretty beautiful relationship. It still is.

Of course, I also became (overly?) familiar with the late night drunk text, the true confessions text, the will-you-come-over-even-though-it’s-four-AM text, the I’m-coming-over-even-though-it’s-four-AM text. And since I’ve left New York, I’ve gotten to know the “I miss you” text all too well. But nothing beats one I received last night, which originated (of course) in NYC:

“Hello. What have you been up to? I miss having sex with you.”

SRSLY? Well, GWHTLC. CYA.

Is there an abbreviation for ‘nostalgia gone’?