The Dark Part of the Story

They met at night, when the hassles, chores, and anxieties of money and making a living and all the pressure to look good and follow the rules died down enough to let a person think. And feel. Darkness helped too. Not seeing anything but the colors of touch and the waves of passion were more than enough to fill the senses and satisfy that hunger that never seemed to abate. The age difference between them didn't seem to count for as much either. Skin was skin, whether taught and smooth or less than perfect. And breath was breath. He was a she and she was a he, and black was white, and I was you and you were me, and all that mattered was the electricity of the heart. Of course,  all of that changed when light crept between the curtains, and the distinction-making began to divide the known universe into this-and-that, categories and differences, taxonomies and hierarchies. It was like that in the mind, the ruler of the light, the rest of the story, the part that weighed down on you, crushed the living breath right out of you.