This is what I wrote in the beginning, when I thought the protagonists would be two young lovers. But I think the story has more depth when the male protagonist is a flawed man in his late thirties-early forties, but with that boyishness still remaining in him.
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He told her that he desired her above all, and his words found a resonating chord within her core. Though as is the game of life, she was not free to give.
They stood in the rain like two teenagers, the Cambridge boy and the Oxford girl, lost in a sea of wanting. The wanting burned like no other fire. The source of her flame was the knowing that she alone walked the corridors of his sexual fantasy; it is very powerful for a woman to know that she is desired like this, by this beautiful and successful man. He dazzled, he simply dazzled. His height and his muscles – he had wanted to learn that crass Dirty Dancing routine and had asked her – bedazzled from afar like some distant star, some dimensionless point particle with no physical reality even as they rode in taxis halfway across the world. That bedazzlement became real – oh, so real – when he showed her his desire. It was then it became all too real for her.
She knew that he burned for her, only for her, throughout his lonely nights because she had felt his wanting across the miles. So powerful was his wanting of her that the Higgs field that lay between them across the chasm came alive with his immense sexual desire.
He knew.
He knew that she had called out his name, silently in her heart, in the privacy of her bed, but her words were always stillborn because of her guilt.
But the fire burned on in her nonetheless, for his strength, for his asymmetric eyes, for his helpless wanting of her, for all that he is in this world. To tamp down this wildfire would be to kill off her inner being, the one that comes alive secretly for him and for him only. For as long as he desired her like this, her flame answered his.
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