On Monday I wanted macaroni & cheese. That meant I wanted you to scoop me up and carry me to a candlelit bed littered with rose petals and down comforters and Egyptian cotton sheets and lay me down softly, and touch me gently, and kiss every inch of skin you exposed as you softly removed my clothing piece … by … piece. I wanted to savor every sensation as you explored every crevice with fingers and lips and tongue. I wanted to escape in a moment that seemed never-ending, and when you came, on top and inside me, I wanted your hands, on my face — soft; your lips, on my lips — gentle; your arms, around me — close. I wanted to fall asleep feeling completely connected to you, our souls intwined as much as our arms and legs were.

On Tuesday I wanted sushi. That meant I wanted it raw. That meant I wanted you to start running your hand up my leg in the car, that I wanted you to devour me with kisses at every red light. I wanted you to shove open the door and pull me inside and slam the door closed and me against the wall and take me with every molecule of your being. I wanted your pace to be feverish and frenzied and I saw no need for eloquence, only stumbling over desire bent over the back of the couch, my hipbones pounding into the cushions with every immediate thrust, intense and intent. I wanted your teeth closing on my ear and my neck and my shoulder and whatever they could find to bite, I wanted flipped and ripped and bruised and obscene.

On Wednesday I wanted peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and s’mores. That meant I wanted us to build a fort out of pillows and blankets in the living room and destroy it in an epic tickle fight. For our laughing faces to come within a fraction of an inch, for pursed lips to tease before pulling away with the feel of your fingers digging into my sides. I wanted us to finally collapse in near-breathless exhaustion before you smiled and pulled me on top of you and we explored each other in the spaces between giggles. And when it was over, I wanted you to kiss me lightly on the forehead and pull back and smile and tickle me again, but soft.

On Thursday I wasn’t hungry. I just wanted whiskey in copious amounts. That meant I wanted you to hate me. I wanted to scream at you about something stupid and inflate it into something important. I wanted to break things. I wanted you to grab my arm so I could look down at your hand holding my arm and in that instant feel more passion than I’d ever felt. I wanted us to lock eyes fierce and dark and kiss with an anger that would make me scream and make angels weep. I wanted us to fuck each other right there on the floor, hard and fast and short and quick, I wanted to feel bones banging bones and making made real, to realize that anger and hatred is not the opposite of love, it is just another angle of expressing it. So after we separated, I could say “fuck you,” and you could say “you just did”.

On Friday I wanted pizza and beer. That meant I wanted sloppy kissing in the kitchen and sloppy fingering on the couch. I wanted to push beer cans and panties to the side and just go at it. I wanted to be interrupted by random people walking in the room and not give a shit. I wanted to feel you thrusting inside me and wonder if you even knew my name. To think that when you finally came there would be some sort of cheers as though there were spectators, even if there weren’t. To finish with a laugh and get up and move on.

On Saturday I wanted whatever you wanted. That meant I wanted you to tie me to the bed. I wanted you to tease me, to forbid me to cum as your hands roamed and your fingers pinched and curled. I wanted you to own me, to please you in whatever way you desired. I wanted to be open and available to you, in whatever way you chose. I wanted you to take me, to be yours, to be used, to be your plaything, to be your pleasure. I wanted to feel the sting of your palm on my ass, the pang of your pinch of my nipples. I wanted to you to make me alive, to know I was only breathing because you allowed it to continue through fingers clinched around my throat. And to know that afterward you would stroke my sweat-damp hair and kiss me quietly and I would collapse into you.

On Sunday I wanted spaghetti. That meant I wanted to slurp smiles and nudge noodles and canoodle in the car and pretend we are fifteen and in love as only teenagers can be. To go with partial clothing removal and laughter and that bruise from the gearshift and the subtle recognition we don’t need yoga to be flexible, only carnal and craven and cramped quarters. And when we collapse in laughter finally, and drive down the road with faces full of secrets, and I run my hand up and down your leg and lean my head on your shoulder, we know that we know and we know that we are.

So yeah … I want you. All you gotta do is figure out what day it is.