He kissed me first on the neck, then on the collar bone, and felt his way to my breasts with his fingers. They were cold from the air outside. In the dark I had trouble seeing him, but I could feel his lips on mine, the two of us smelling strongly of alcohol. He pressed me against him, and in a wild frenzy I pulled his shirt over his head, leaving his glasses untouched. He made as if to take them off as well, but I stopped him.
"No, wait," I said. "Leave them on." The smile he gave in response was a wry one, for he believed it was some fetish of mine to make love to a professor or an eager academic of philosophy circles. In truth, my desire for his glasses to remain there was simply due to the fact that I felt he looked rather distinguished with them.
We kissed again, our breathing becoming heavier, and we both fumbled for his belt. Stepping in the shower with him I recalled briefly that I had read somewhere—a morning newspaper article or something to that effect— that it was supposed to be difficult to distinguish the qualities of two voices if they were both whispering. But the sounds we made were singular, and it seemed that words were entirely unnecessary by that point. The low hollow-sounding sigh belonged to him, and the short startled one belonged to me. I breathed predominantly in short, desperate bursts, and he in prolonged exhalations. I blinked away the tears that were lost in the running water, and urged him to take me away.