Thursday, August 14, 2008
Her feet hung over the blanket’s edge. The grass tickled her ankles.
“Are these clouds even real?” she said.
He claimed her waist with his hand.
“For as long as we’re looking at them,” he said.
“What happens when we’re not?”
“So long, clouds.”
She laced her leg between his thighs, pooling their sweat. Their heat.
“Our clouds,” she said, filling her nose with the sharpness of his skin. Sunspots flared across her vision. Toes cramped, digging into the damp earth.
“We should build a summer home up there.”
“Call it Brigadoon.”
Her chin rubbed his shoulder, while her hand slipped below his waist. Searching. Coaxing.
“Will we have to wait a hundred years between our summer days?” she asked.
“Brigadoon . . .”
“Sorry. I’m a little distracted. Again.”
She smiled. “I love it when you can’t think.”
Sliding on top of him, she pressed his arms into the ground. Fingernails dividing the taut tendons, muscles. He could slip away, flip her over. But he didn’t.
So she moved faster. Loving those hunter’s eyes. Matching their reach. The sun pounded her back. So bright, so bright. She ached to melt. Center out.
“That cow over there. Is watching,” he said.
“Quit pretending. You care.”
“I think he’s—Jesus—judging me.”
“Our cloud. Would be. Softer.”
“But I like. Hard.”
She placed a hand over his mouth, watching his eyes smear over. Showing him what soft was.
He seized her hips. Rolled her over.
Proving her deep.
The clouds blew by.
They didn't care.