he was never sure if he could love a woman. he would date them, take them home with him, but he still was not sure.

then he would find himself next to her, on a bed somewhere, and without effort he could imagine how his body would feel against her's.

how his body would move against her's.

how his lips would touch her lips and how his hands would move down her stomach.

even if she was just a friend, even if nothing was meant to happen, being in bed with her brought these images to the front of his mind.

then she, this particular woman, would move her arm over her eyes and talk to the ceiling, telling him of this and that, and he would watch her lips.

he would watch her smile.

he would watch her laugh at some off-hand comment he made. a comment he made just to make her laugh.

because when she laughed her whole face changed and his chest inflated.

but he was in love with some one else's memory, as was she. they shared that, a small knowledge of the one who came before, the one who held their hearts, and she said, "it's been six years and i've just now managed to say we probably won't get married. not even that we will not, but probaby not."

and he nods and says, "yeah."

and she said, "you still care a lot about her, don't you?"

and he nods and says, "yeah."

and she said, "you deserve to be with someone. you're a great person. i mean, you know that, right?"

and he sits, quietly. she turns to look at him.

if things could be different, they would be in love. if things could be different, he would roll over and kiss her as soft as he possibly could. if things could be different, he would tell her, every day, that she didn't need to lose weight. that she was beautiful and funny.

but things aren't different.