"I have to go"

"Hello!"
Her voice locked me into every moment I've only dreamed of: both of us in bed, reading, our feet rubbing each other's shins, Mahler or Monk or Mogwai whispering amongst us.
A candle flickers on the bureau, another in the bathroom, it's flame flapping towards the cracked window, casting dancing shapes across the bedspread.
"Listen," she says, her eyes dancing, her smile inviting, her voice a nostrum to all things within in my book and myself.
It's why I cherish her phone calls. Her seductive and sultry "Hello!" draws me in immediately, I'm enthralled, hooked. The following minutes (or hours, even) will make it that, by the end, I'll loathe letting go.
When she left, it was not "Goodbye," but "Later," I'd said, "You're coming back."
It's what we are; destiny, inevitability.
She reads: "This is a valley of ashes--a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of gray cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-gray men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight."
I love that, I love her. She'd told me, almost embarrassed, she'd never read "The Great Gatsby" and now she is, with every page she turns I steal a glance, wanting to catch her reactions, watching her eyes caress the page.
"I have to go," she says, inevitably (I'm rarely the one to say that), and then it takes us another half hour to make that happen.
Looking upon my own page, silently, surreptitiously, I read:
"He loved her because it was his nature to do so, but there were times when he could not endure her love for him. There were times when it became nothing but pure idiot mystery..."*
Placing the book on my chest, the pages cool and silky against my nipples, I think of her lips and her breath slipping fast between them, her tongue tumbling in my mouth, her torso writhing as my hand cups her breast.
"Hello!" she says, playfully, her legs wrapping around my waist, her moan locking me in and hypnotizing me.
"I have to go."
And, for another half hour, we cannot let each other go.