Tuesday, 3 June 2014

Sing me a song

It is 3:00 pm, a perfect time to lie in a meadow in summer, with the fingers of one hand dangling into a swift moving stream. The icy cold is such a relief from the unpleasant sticky sweatiness I feel generally. I see blue sky above me and hear birdsong and plant life rustling.

I have a lover nearby who talks intermittently. I smile, laugh and occasionally gaze adoringly in his general direction. I know he doesn't need me when he's talking. He could be talking to anyone. But he wouldn't be silent with anyone else. That's my time. That's our thing.

He finishes telling me about the guy who made his sub and the bond they had formed, ever so briefly, over a band they hand both seen in the last week. I recommend they make a date for the next gig and he grins before lapsing into silence. He pulls on the grass and plucks a single stalk which he gradually shreds; first de-seeding, then unpeeling the leaves one by one. I don't need to watch, I've seen it a thousand times. I don't need to listen. The sound of his breathing will remain unchanged. As I relax, my breathing slows and deepens, but he always has such control that it stays constant.

Instead I feel. I feel the heat of the sun above me, the prickly earth below. The chilly waters endlessly flowing and leaching the heat from my fingers feels icy cold. I feel a warm breeze, barely disturbing my skin. I feel the light cotton of my skirt on my legs, acting as a shield from the sun. The portion of my legs that lies exposed feels slightly tighter and dryer than the portion protected by the skirt.

I feel his hand. It rests on my belly. He must have finished with his grass. It is gentle and soft, yet I know its size and strength intimately. Every detail is burned into my mind of the crisp curling hairs over the back of his hand, the callus on his palm and the scar on one finger where he was marked as a child by a falling knife he'd tried to catch. Each of his fingers is lightly dusted with hair and his nails are short and squared. The hand I have been resting in the grass until now reaches up to join his almost of its own volition. My fingers wrap around his wrist and caress his hand, before intertwining with his own fingers.

I feel his blood pumping through his hand and the pulse jumping lightly in his wrist. There is no need for me to see his face to know his eyes are watching our fingers. In his mind he is meticulously logging each visual and audible moment; probably without even realising it in the same way I record every sensation to cherish on a cold, lonely day.

He lifts his hand pulling mine to his lips and kisses it lightly before returning it to my midriff, and begins to croon a soft lullaby.

My breathing slows and deepens. My heartbeat is steady. I smile slightly and close my eyes as the song washes over me.


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