by Chris Wiltz
(03/17/04)
It was one of those exquisite, ethereal, time-arresting moments. Lying there with her, her body coupled with his, her head resting comfortably beneath his shoulder as if it had been made to fit there, a missing piece of himself. Being there...the sensation -- that light, electric ecstasy. He could have stayed forever. Pale, twisted puffs of smoke lingered in the air, writhing in jealousy. Her blanket-warm breath traveled down his bare forearm, swirled in his palm, and drifted out into the twilight. His other arm ebbed and flowed like a boat with the rise and fall of her stomach. His hand clasped over hers, his fingers between hers -- filling an emptiness he'd never realized was there.
They fit together so perfectly despite their differences. Both wrapped in their hazelnut skin beneath deep blue linen. His rigidity and angularity meshed so well with her subtlety and texture that the click was near audible. This is how cream and sugar must feel bathed in an oval of warm tea, he thought.
Still, he wondered if she felt as at ease as he did. His hair smelled nowhere near as good as hers (silk strands dipped in jasmine). How could it? Her hair reminded him of a haiku. His hair reminded him of a garden too long unattended. The thought of her head being nestled in his armpit kept picking at him. Was there a smell? He couldn't tell. Something told him there had to be. But she hadn't said anything. He wanted to change his position, to move his armpit away from her, but he couldn't think of any way to make an easy transition into another equally comfortable position. In some situations you always think you can change one thing, just one more thing, but sooner or later you add or subtract too much and ruin everything. Moving now would be like just that.He knew that the equilibrium he had was delicate, that these moments are as fragile as frozen rose petals.
She was so still. Asleep? No, the blade of her foot was still massaging his instep. He had forgotten the hot, chilly waves traveling up his spine, orchestrating his thumbstrokes along the edge of her adjoined hand in perfect sync with her foot movements, the same strings of desire that now had him pressing his lips to her naked shoulder. A slight change in her breathing reached into him and tickled a sense of uncertainty from some far corner of his mind. She inhaled and held her breath as she shuffled her body further into his, softly pressing her behind into him.
"Whatcha thinkin' about?" her voice was so soft it could have been the breeze blowing in through the air vents.
"I thought you were 'sleep." A little louder and shakier than he intended.
"Nope, I'm just layin' here."
"You okay?"
"Yeah." There was nothing nasal in her voice.
"...Whatcha thinkin' about?"
"Jus' about you." Even without seeing her face he could tell that she had cracked a smile.
"What about me?"
"I was thinking how you reminded me of a haiku I read once."
"A Haiku?"
"A seventeen-syllable poem."
"Really? How' d it go?"
He tried not to let the moment change the words as he paused to remember them.
The wind's beauty shows best
when it shifts through her hair
and they dance together
That sounded right.
"That's pretty," she began from a yawn. "Who wrote it?"
"I can't remember, maybe Richard Wright."
For a moment sugar and cream almost returned. An audible inhale...an exhale, waiting for her to glide into the pattern.
"It's real nice, but it's not a haiku." Mist split open like a curtain of beads.
"Really?" He got the word out quick enough to mask his embarrassment.
"Its got one too many syllables."
"I don't think I remembered it correctly, but the gist of it is the same. One of the words is just different."
She stopped massaging his foot with hers and shifted her body slightly. Jasmine wafted through the air as she moved, reminding him of the scent but not distracting him from counting syllables...
"Grace." He said flatly.
"Huh?"
The wind's grace shows best
when it shifts through her hair
and they dance together
"Is that how it really went?" Fatigue vacillated in her voice.
"Yeah, it was grace, not beauty."
"Is beauty better than grace?"
"I d'know." He lifted his right hand imperceptibly and caressed hers. "I suppose the two are about the same."
Silence...breath.
"Actually...there's beauty within grace, so grace is the better quality." The answer gave his body assurance enough to fully relax next to hers again. He bent his extended arm awkwardly, sliding it underneath her arm to couple her breast. She didn't say anything, but she moved her hand upward along his arm. A twinkle of a thought -- was there a smell? His thumb rotated around her nipple and secretly assured him she would not notice.
She responded, snaking against his body, pressing herself closer against him, massaging him with her behind. The hardness came slowly, beckoned by each faint hiss of air between her lips. Linen embraced their thighs. Eyes closed.
It came between breaths, two minutes somehow wrung between two seconds.
"Why do you have to think about everything so much?"
"...."
"Beauty and grace, I didn't really care which one was better but you jus' had to give me an answer 'bout it."
"If you didn't care, why'd you ask?" A space opened between their bodies, channeling a small arctic breeze. "Anyway...you asked me what I was thinking in the first place."
His mind braced itself for a sharp retort, like a kid waiting to be spanked by a parent, but the words never came. Anticipation opened his right hand and straightened his other arm. She lifted herself and rolled over to look at him, the scent of jasmine and smoke, as she slumped her head back over his arm, no more delicately than she would a pillow.
Shiny ovals hid their brown tint from him while his hid their beet redness. He felt her hand stroking his neck, stroking the discolored acne scar on his lower cheek. He clasped her hand more to move it than to feel its satin caress this time. As he did so, she moved in as though she was going to kiss him, but stopped once her lips were centimeters from his.
They stayed that way for quite a while. White swirls had begun to cling to jasmine silk. Her tepid breath batted his lips as she finally spoke through the minute-long seconds.
"I should go."
Her words were flat and absolute, invoking the same sensation one gets being dragged from the brink of a dream.
The smell of smoke welled up, over jasmine, over breath...over everything as the haze swallowed her and thinned around a cold, untouched spot on the bed. An invisible ice cube ran down his forearm as he leaned forward and pressed his wet index and middle fingers down into the ashtray beneath his bed. Its final gasp came in a staccato hiss. He yawned through the fading miasma and stretched into the exact spot where she had been laying, the cold pillow lulling him to sleep.
