I sat sullenly drinking my drink, contemplating that it seemed no one here cared for me. Sarah sat down and looked around. “Greg where were you?” she asked with genuine concern. Now I had to be wise about this. I could lie and avoid embarrassment or I could tell her the truth. I decided a lie would be better so I told her I had to take a phone call from a friend going through a break up. She accepted this and I got more involved in the group. She stayed by my side most of the night as the group started to drift away to bed. Eventually it was just three of us awake at midnight, the CO, me and Sarah. The CO ordered us to bed. I wasn’t drunk but Sarah was tipsy so required support to get her back to the tents. As we walked we talked, and she kept saying how long it had been since she had had sex. Half way to the tents, as we entered the tree line, she stopped and pulled down her trousers and peed against a tree. All I thought was 'god she is beautiful and sexy.' Once she was properly. Sometimes, however, I read words that I myself have written and they feel stranger than that of a classic writer dead two hundred years before I was born.What I remember the most is the routine, the weekly meetings at the same room, first at the hotel, then at The Place, the small apartment that I rented only for our meetings. It was different than any other relationship I had. There was no jealousy—I had always been jealous—no questions of who we were, what we had done the day before. We didn't know each other names, where the other lived, anything. All the questions that people ask to know each other were uninteresting. We didn't ask them not because they were forbidden, but because we had no interest whatsoever. Our relationship did not belong to the world, it only existed in the words of computer screens and in these occasional meetings we had, beneath the masks of ourselves.I'd be lying if I said that it wasn't for the sex that we met. If it weren't, why meeting every week? And.
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