by Annika Jones
(11/30/05)
I see her following the trail. Words, barely meaningful by themselves, form a sentence through the hallway, into the bedroom and out again, across the living room floor to the patio door.
I watch her through the window, catching glimpses through the clusters of elderberry; she's wearing the tank top that makes her breasts look so tempting, generously showing off their roundness as she bends down to pick up the next note. Me, it says; her lesbian wife. I'm the woman who still thinks she's the most beautiful redhead I ever laid eyes on, even after our twenty odd years together.
It always sparks her curiosity when I use her own weapon against her. Words -- they're her lovers, her foes. Her firsts and lasts and always. This time, they're on little pieces of paper, laid out in a trail for her to follow, one that starts on top of the coffee jar in the kitchen -- the only place she visits regularly when consumed by writing, if I don't make her go someplace else.
She comes out of the bedroom and I chuckle at her confused face. I hurry, so she won't see me; I walk over to the far corner of the garden -- the corner the evening sun kisses, the corner where water trickles down the granite wall into a shallow pool. She loves the water; she says it soothes her mind. The words will lead her here, to her favorite place in our garden. She's taken the bait; I imagine myself an angler on a lake, reeling her in. I smile and undo another button on my blouse, anticipating her touch.
She must have entered the living room now. The last words will bring her into the garden. I imagine her picking up the note that says: The.
I hear the creaking of the door I never get around to fixing; it's opening. The last note is just outside, under the small white stone she brought back from the beach, that's been sitting on our patio ever since. A reminder of the beauty of simplicity, she said, a reminder of love. Smooth, it's polished by the finest jeweler on Earth -- water.
That's what the last note reads: Water.
Meet me by the water.
I lie down, let my face be touched by the soft evening sun, I close my eyes. And wait. She approaches and I become aware of her one sense at a time. First, the sound of her footsteps. Then her scent drifts towards me.
I shiver when I feel her breath on my face. She won't kiss my lips; she always starts at my neck. I don't know why, but I've learned to love it, as I have everything else about her, even her words -- my rivals. And then her lips are pressed against my neck.
"You're beautiful," she whispers.
I open my eyes to hers but she's already looking elsewhere; her hands are under my blouse. I sit up to let her reach the clasp of my bra. In a smooth motion, practiced for years, she shoves my blouse and bra out of the way. A wicked smile contorts the fine line of her lips when she pushes me down, back against the ground, exposing me to the sun and to the summer breeze that rustles the leaves and hardens my nipples. She bends to kiss one of them -- as always she's lips first, hands later -- her tongue moving in circles. I arch, needing her to be harsher, and curl my legs around her body. She doesn't disappoint me; she's already unbuttoning my pants. I wriggle out of them, eagerly, and spread my legs wide. I'm well-known territory for her, and this is not one of those patient, long lovemaking sessions you see on TV. She goes straight for my clit. I wonder briefly if this is like a dream for her, like the rest of her life seems to be, or if lovemaking somehow is different. But a second later I don't care about anything other than her tongue on my clit.
Fingers come next, fucking me in a rhythm that matches my heartbeat -- rapid, irregular. I raise my pelvis to meet her thrusts, driving myself into her mouth. I hear my own panting, but am only vaguely aware that I'm covered by nothing but the soft glow of the descending sun, and that I'm clenching my wife's face to my sex. I love her most of all like this.
When I climax I hold my breath, trapped in the sensation. She's the one making the noises -- hushed hums and sucking noises. I don't know why she hums, but I like it. It makes me feel oddly delicious.
My grip on her loosens with exhalation. She moves, wraps a leg around me and her head comes to rest on my shoulder. There is a weight on my stomach that's not merely from her hand and I open my eyes to see what it is. It's the stone from the beach.
Yes, I agree. This is the beauty of simplicity, of love. I run my hand along her arm, over her stomach and under the rim of her top.
"It's about time you got undressed too," I tell her.
