by Eliza F.
(08/20/03)
At home, at home in that city that sprawls across three seas, I wake early on long summer mornings, wake before the sun, before the entire sleeping city blinks its dreary eyes and screams for attention. I paddle with sure strokes, slicing through the absolute stillness of the clear morning air, until I reach the sailboat. A white swan waiting patiently, outriggers extended lightly across the gently rocking ripples. A touch of the motor, away from the harbor and out the channel and then sails up, and a turn, gliding soundlessly, like a held-in breath, like pure anticipation sliding over the glassy green water at the beginning of my yellow summer morning.
Softly moving, touching, caressing. Your fingers rippled across my skin. A kiss, long and held and breathing together. Warm lips barely touching, trembling the slightest bit, as hair tumbled and hands roamed and eyes locked and bodies swayed into togetherness.
"I’ve never kissed a girl before."
Discovery. Awareness. Surprise? Yes, surprise, as the feel of your flesh under my hands was like soft velvet, like the pure fine sand of the smoothest Bahamian beach, melting and folding and shifting. Total newness. Shecheheyanu for all new things -- that prayer of peace and hope and discovery. The world narrowed to my bed and our bodies. Whispering names, back and forth, savoring the sweetness of your mouth and the lemon tanginess of your name. Your smell -- so instantly familiar, so irrevocably tied to my being.
Yes, I want to explore with you.
As the sun rises and the world brightens to red, orange, purple, gold, and the sky lightens to blue and the water ruffles its feathers -- the heat of the day comes on. Leaping naked off the prow of the boat, glistening in the liquid light where air and water and sun come together and are one, being as a dolphin and playing in the wake of the soaring sailboat -- thrilling, enlightening, yet always that hint of danger. The power, the delight of losing control.
I know nothing about you. Friendly acquaintances, brought together by pure hot desire. Is that all we are? Can we be more? Can I awake in your eyes that fire of orgasm, draw out your voice in waves of passion, and fail to see into your soul? When my lips go to your aching cunt, when I drink of that liquid that men call honey but that I call lemonade, then I know you. I know your smell, your taste, your touch.
As you know mine.
We discovered these secrets to the universe: that a body may take its ultimate pleasure. That desire and sensuality and bathtubs and double beds all run their course and make no difference when I am moaning, writhing, thrashing over your head and at the mercy of your hands and tongue.
Do we need more? These secrets are enough.
"Desnuda eres tan lista como una de tus manos..."
The city awakes in sweltering heat. Moor the boat, kayak to the dock, and drive the rattletrap blue van off the island and into Miami. The midday rain drips in through holes in the roof. The car smells of must, the cracked-open windows admit more rain, more damp, more wetness and fresh smells. Sidewalk fruit vendors, huddled under their awnings.
Empanandas and tamales, hamburgers and sushi. Stop at a cafetera, ask for an espresso -- a little plastic shot glass of wickedly strong coffee, half rich black espresso and half sugar. The café warms the body from head to toes and leaves glowing patches-throat, belly, womb. But then, stepping back out to the car in the dripping hot rain, the glow fades, the coffee aftertaste turns bitter in the mouth.
Is this why you don’t like coffee?
I know what I want. I want to be with you, to enjoy your company, your voice, your body. I want you to want to be with me. How much is that?
You have no time for me. No time for loving, no time for making love, no more time for learning and exploring. The newness is gone. The anticipation.
Where can this go but nowhere? You do not crave me as I crave you. I know, I can tell. And yet I can’t tell -- and yet again, I am surprised. Surprised this time by pain, by how much it really hurts not to be with you, not to be desired by you. Pain turns to anger, anger to power, power to pride. I shall not go where I am not wanted. I will not touch you, speak to you, be near you -- where I am not wanted. Tell me why this must be.
After the afternoon rainstorm, the summer sun peeks its head out from under the clouds. Chuckling to itself, the sun mops up the mess, the rain, gently dries each jade-green leaf and adds color to the upturned faces of the people, so many colors already themselves. Time dries the lukewarm rain, time and the cool breezes of the afternoon that blow the rainclouds out to the ocean and cool the city as evening falls. Sunset over the city is anticlimactic, an orange globe sinking beyond the highways, the houses, the skyscrapers, the dense stretching blazes of the far-off swamp. And I sigh inwardly, park the car, arrive home damp and finally cool and musty smelling. And yet home.
