[3 June 2019]
23. 7:00 – 9:00.
“You really are a shameless flirt, aren’t you?”
I can’t believe I said that out loud. My face reddens slightly. I feel the prickles of heat rising to my cheeks.
He laughs. Honey and amber and orange peel. “Absolutely incorrigible.”
Incorrigible. Incurable. Intractable. Hopeless. Incorrigible. That’s a word you don’t hear often. We lie there in silence.
Incorrigible.
I hear your breath quietly beside me. You’re not sleeping.
I feel the earth beneath me. Cool. Stable. Solid. Firm. The dew from the morning grass seeps into my jacket and into my shirt and onto the skin of my back.
He’s quiet. Is he waiting for me to say something? I don’t know what to say so I don’t say anything.
Inside, my mind is swirling. Incorrigible. Why did you choose that word? That’s not the first time you’ve used that word. Every time you do, my stomach tightens. I wonder if you are the person I want to think you are. The man I need to think you are. Every time you do, I hear your laugh, I see your smile, your eyes. Laughing. Incorrigible. Every time you do, I fall in love with you a little more.
The sun is taking its first steps above the horizon. I feel its warmth spread across my legs. I watch its light pass through the leaves.
“Are you always this serious or do you have a personality hidden somewhere in there?” He says.
He smiles, eyes bright. Playful. Mischievous. The eyes of a child.
I don’t say anything for a long time. I don’t know how to respond to that.
Finally, I work up something to say. “Did you study literature or something?”
“Where did that come from?” He grins. I can hear it in your voice.
From your words. Silken. Electric. Your stubble. Umber. Everything from your dark hair to your brown leather shoes carelessly soaking in the morning dew. Your eyes. Serious and playful at once. The eyes of a child. “Oh. Nothing.” I say. What have those eyes seen?
He laughs again. Yellow and green. Alive.
I smile, too.
“At least you can smile.” You say.
How can I not smile when you’re looking at me like that?
Our fingers are inches apart. I can feel the heat from his body. The wind rustles the long river grasses and I long to feel his skin but I’m too afraid to move, to breathe, to take what I want for fear that I break the spell that is woven between us.
“I want to watch the sun set over Mt. Fuji.” You say.
“Me, too.” I say. I think want to see the sun set over Mt. Fuji someday with you.
You laugh, your eyes shining. In your mind, you have already been there and back a hundred times.
We lie there in silence a while longer. Warm silence. Comfortable silence. You turn your head and look me in the eyes again. What do you feel when you look at my eyes?
I watch you smile again. The knot melts away, or at least the churning subsides.
What do you see in me? What do I have to offer you?
I open my mouth. I feel like I ought to say something. I know I don’t need to. Not because I need to. Because I want to.
I hear the sound of your breath. I feel the heat of your body. Knowing that at any moment you might speak, might look at me, might touch my hand. Possibility hangs the balance and builds with each moment that passes.
I look at you. Dark hair. Thick. Long but not too long. Spreading down your face and around your lips and sprinkled down to your chest and scattered on your stomach. I want to run my fingers through that hair. I see you looking at me. My heart skips and my stomach sinks. I look at you, lying next to me on the hill. Brown eyes. Fig and hickory and date.
I turn and look away, back up to the sky. I open my mouth again to speak.
I can’t hold this inside me forever.
In the space before the silence is broken, touch.
Our fingers brush. Warmth. Heat. Electricity. I feel it, streaming from your body into mine.
Fire.
I lie there a long time. The sun is rising along the horizon. I can see it now over the top of my feet. Did you mean to touch my hand? Are you waiting for me to make the next move? What if it was an accident and I grab your hand? What happens to me if you see me for who I really am and for how I really feel? If I just brush fingertips with you again, will you see through me? Will you think I’m –
Your fingers brush mine again. Warmth. Heat. Fire.
You smile. The lavender blooms at our feet.
I feel your finger move away. Instinctively, I grab on.
What is it about you that makes me feel like I simply do, that I can be without thinking?
Big. Your hands are big. I’m lying next to you. Can you feel my heart racing through the ground? Can you feel it in my palm? The earth shakes.
You laugh. “I’m going to get stuck to you if you hold on any tighter.”
I take that as a dare.
This, here is where magic and mystery emerge
in their stubborn glory into the sunlight.
Incorrigible.
I look at you. You are looking up at the sky. There it is again, that smile, just behind your eyes, waiting to run out.
Your heart is wild and boundless and free: plum blossoms drift through the wind and collect in the cool palm of your hand.
I look away. I look at the sky too. What do those eyes see? Why do they always hide that secret smile? Are you thinking about me? I look back at you. You are looking at me.
The sun plays on our hands. Holding them. Filling the spaces between our fingers. The grass grows green and strong and cool. The earth bears our weight, buoys us up, keeps us safe.
I look at your eyes. I look in your eyes. I see my reflection in your eyes. When you look at me, what do you see?
All the words I had planned to say are gone from my mouth, from my mind. But, for once, I feel no need to speak. For once, I am content, at peace.
Your fingers move in my hand. Are you trying to break free? The knots that had loosened in my stomach return, aching, twisting, gnawing.
No. You push deeper. More trust. More safe. More free.
Do you make everyone feel this way or is it just me?
Your heart is racing. I can feel it through your palm. My heart is calm and still. Strong. Unshakeable. Yet alive. Green. Growing. All the lives I’ve lived and all the dreams I’ve dreamed hold their breath in united awe.
Your face is inches away from mine. Your eyes burn, burn deep, pull me in. Your breath is warm and soft and sweet. A flurry of rose petals swirls around your body and settles into your clothes. The grass grows into your hair.
You reach out towards me with your other hand. You touch my face. Gentle. Eager. Your thumb touches my lips. My skin. Your eyes are fire. You hold the back of my head with your hand and bury your hand in my hair. You draw our heads together. Face to face. Eye to eye. Side to side. Your forehead touching mine.
I reach out towards you with my other hand. I touch your face. Gentle. Eager. My thumb touches your lips. Your skin. Your stubble scratches my hand. Your ear. Gold earring. I hold the back of your head with my hand and bury my face and my hand in your hair.
Who are you?
I watch the sun settle in the long grasses and into the quiet dens. I see the stillness gather here and gather there and father deeper stillness still.
I explore the depths, carrying the flame, finding my body in the gentle hollows and soft ridges and sacred hallows. I feel the gentle takings and givings of the earth below. Your hand is cool on my face, your breath steady.
The morning breaks, spreads like spring from treetop to treetop. The wonder of a child as a bird takes flight. Fire falls on twig and branch and leaf and hill, calling forth the lavender and the pomegranate, setting them ablaze with their secret longing to run.
I close my eyes, buried beneath your body, sheltered beneath the fig tree.
Time stands still.
The earth stands in breathless hush as the life drawn forth from its womb takes its first step. Awe is born anew. The warm glow spreads, extends, grows, rises into the heights of the trees and dips into the hollows only you and I know.
The light holds. Demures. Gathers. Gently kisses the lips of hillside. Touches, almost pulling back, almost blushing, almost shy, but holds course. We breathe as one, the fire and the hillside. Even the grasses have surrendered. Always burning but never consumed.
Light lies golden on golden hills. The amber drips from the trees and through your hand and through my hand and your hand finds mine. I find a firmness in the grasp of your palm. I find a soul in the beat of your heart. I find sleep in the sound of your breath.
[From The Myth of Prometheus]
For other parts of this narrative:
Aries, Part One
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