We didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into. But I think that was the point.

We abandoned the group in the unknown city we were spending time in and she lagged behind as I entered a house that we probably weren’t supposed to go into. It was untouched in the way that it was planning on being touched. It was unused in the way that it was planning on being used. I entered the tall front door of the tall, thin house, and I left the world that was outside. The world outside seemed gray, seemed monotone. I don’t remember what it looked like. And when I walked inside, I was swallowed into a new world entirely. Sawdust scattered the unfinished floor, and pastels painted the walls and delicately displayed themselves on the wall hangings and single armchair which occupied a slumbering forgotten friend. The main room was small and tall - a sort of ballet studio, with one large mirror plastered on the wall to my right, and tall windows to my left displaying a twinkling lake that I don’t remember from the outside. I stepped inside some more and I felt like the slightest noise would make the most everlasting echo. And there she was in front of me, twisting and turning and soaking in the rebellion of being someplace we weren’t supposed to be. Doing things we weren’t supposed to.

We tiptoed quietly around our sleeping friend as we danced to music that wasn’t heard in front of mirrors that didn’t show our reflections. In a show-me-yours, I’ll-show-you-mine back and forth, our hearts raced with what we weren’t supposed to do. We shook with nerves on the wooden floor scattered with sawdust. Our friend was sleeping, or was she even our friend? Was she even sleeping? Was she even there?

Firm skin - no lines, no bumps, no peaks and valleys. Barbie doll anatomy and G-rated surfaces. She was lifted into an adventure of adrenaline, she displayed everything, but I saw nothing. I shouldn’t be doing this took over, and what if we get caught fluttered about. But more comfort arose and more exploring took place. She touched and things became physically and anatomically real. Things started becoming possible. I told her to come closer. I told her to explore, I told her to reach out, I told her to try. And she smiled because she just told me the same thing. Was I talking? Or was it her? Who took initiative? Did we care? Why would we?

We stumbled around our sleeping friend as she awoke and told us “not in here.” We giggled as we glanced through a door which held a staircase to a higher story. The foundations are too weak, we thought. This building isn’t supposed to hold us, we shouldn’t try to go any higher. We abandoned the thought of steps and crept through a door on the mirror wall. We shut the door and we were faced with a sort of kitchen or dining room or a room that held a sink. More pastels and more sawdust and more untouched territory. The wall of the mirrors and of the entrance door held a window which we assumed was one-way. Even if it wasn’t, it didn’t matter. Our sleeping but awake friend was climbing up the stairs we thought weren’t safe to climb. But what is safe? As far as we knew now, we were alone on the ground floor.

We were alone on the floor. We were hasty and hushed and layers fell off and were torn off and were yanked off. The sawdust disappeared and all was clean and all was bare and all was new and untouched.

But the house had now been touched.

The sawdust faded away to nothing, surfaces shone which were once unpolished, things were in place, things looked ready to be used. Although the staircase was unseen, we knew it was stable enough to be climbed. And the house was so beautiful.

Muffled laughter and stolen kisses and she was so beautiful and I was so beautiful and we knew what we were doing and we knew we weren’t supposed to. Moving and writhing and holding and groping and grasping and panting and sighing. The sun shone through windows I couldn’t see, and I smelt the fresh air I couldn’t feel. She laughed and gasped and gave me her approval and she was so beautiful.

I hid my face and showed myself. I saw her hands and I felt her hands. She couldn’t see my smile. I couldn’t see her satisfaction. I looked up and I knew I was doing the right thing. So I hid my face again.

Over and over and on and about and around and in and out and together and apart and hot and cold and bare and touched and untouched and covered. The house’s pastels became deeper shades of pinks. The colors became more intense, more real, more obvious. Warmer, deeper, brighter.

More noise. We should be quiet, they’ll hear. Who’s they? Why does it matter? Would they even care? More noise. Where is our sleeping friend? Is she upstairs? What’s upstairs? What does it even matter? More noise. More noise.

One more noise. One last final gasp. Sleepy, sober, drunken, lazy. Lolling around and unable to stay up. Chests raising, chests falling. Breathe in and breathe out. I lay silently as she lay silently. Breaths. One after the other. All noise was cut, all silence was apparent. All there was was breath.

And the house was so beautiful and so welcoming. The colors were rich and the floors were clean. The furniture was in place and the windows made sense. The ceiling that was once too tall and too unreachable and too ominous now settled cozily at a reasonable height. I looked at the ceiling. And so did she.