Mid-November

Our feet make no noise as we hike the trail.  Damp pine needles cushion our steps, but the moist air carries our voices in all directions.  I am speaking, as I normally do, about something that fascinates me but bores you.  You are telling yourself that you love me, and you just like being around me, and that what excites you is when I am excited.  I wonder how long you will be able to tell yourself these things, and I lose interest in what I am saying and stop.  You've tuned me out and it takes you a moment to ask if something is wrong, if I am okay, and you wonder if you've been caught not listening.  You scramble for the fragments of the soliloquy, just as I scramble to remember names of people you hangout with or have problems with.  I stop you on the trail with a view over the salt marsh and I kiss you, which I think you think is romantic.  You know I think this will be romantic and respond with all the usual things, a satisfied smile, too much teeth, a returned kiss.  I give your ass a squeeze to remind you what motivates me, and you smile and kiss me again. 
We will probably go home and fuck, like we usually do, unless I say something that puts you in a bad mood or vice versa, and we will probably fuck anyway and be miserable about it because we are young and I want sex even if it's bad and you want me even if it sucks.