We haven't had sex here for a few hours, but it feels like years. I was prepared for the days in the desert to be hot and the nights cold – or at least, I listened and nodded affirmatively when you warned me, which I now know is completely different from actually being prepared. I underestimated the weather in the same way that earlier today, we both underestimated the rocky hills surrounding us. "The top isn't very high," we said. "Let's go all the way up." You climbed as if the sun didn't affect you, and if I weren't with you, you would have gone much faster. Near the top, we passed by the entrance of a cave. I wondered aloud what might live inside. "Maybe a wildcat," you said, shrugging your shoulders. So I shrugged my shoulders too and said, "Perfect," then moved away.

I'm sinking even deeper into my sleeping bag and wishing I had a few more clothes to throw on. It must surely be different inside your sleeping bag. I imagine I crawl in. But I'm not sure you want to wake up. Our relationship is so new that every choice carries special weight; it could be seriously misunderstood – if I wake you, I might send the message that I don't respect boundaries, nor the importance of a small distance to balance the intensity of our physical intimacy. Everything is so intoxicatingly new, yet at the same time slippery and uncertain. And these three days have exactly that kind of turmoil, and we both get irritated at the slightest thing – a slow drag of marijuana, the strap of your bra slipping onto my shoulder. We keep lifting our eyes from what we're doing, to discover each other's gaze fixed on us.