| I
want to get back to where we were, he tells
himself. Before all this.
Not that this argument was the worst, not
by a long shot. But the silence following
it was deafening in the extreme. The fight
came at the worst time, they were both too
tired, too worried about money, about getting
older, about realizing that the plans they
planned at the very beginning said more
about youth and faith than it did about
any ability to really pull it off. He wants
to make the first move, but something's
holding him in place, until she smiles that
wry and ancient smile that tells him they've
come through to the other side once again.
Telling her to stay on the couch, he goes
into the bathroom, yelling for her about
ten minutes later. She follows, because
it's her turn to receive, and his turn to
make things right.
He's lit the fat, white
candle he's kept under the sink in case
of emergencies, and placed it on the sink.
Long shadows flicker, and the two of them
stand face to face, slowly undressing one
another. No words are necessary, as their
hands trail against exposed flesh. The bathroom
door is closed, the tub is full, and steam
fills the room--circles them, shrouding
their nakedness. The shower has seen its
fair share of activity, in practical, daily
ablutions--tonight, he wants them to be
islands in a faraway sea.
They climb in, and thankfully,
this old relic has plenty of room. It's
sat unused by both of them for eons, but
there are other plans for it now. Italian
bath salts scent the water, and the two
of them ease into the liquid heat and face
each other. Wrapping his arms and legs around
her, he captures her, draws her close.
|
 |
Before
and after each time his lips meet hers,
he keeps saying her name--he can't help
himself. The sound of her name echoing around
them surges through his body and each kiss
grows deeper, more urgent. Somewhere in
his mind he tells himself that he's lost,
that he doesn't care. You're my tether,
he thinks. It's not a conscious thought
anymore, it's knowledge in the body.
She slides toward him,
her tongue caressing his, her hand reaching
under the water to stroke him somewhere
else. He comes alive in her hand, solid
and real. She has never known anything so
real.
He stops kissing her only to bring his head
to her breast, closing his mouth over a
nipple. She cries out, and cradling his
hand over hers, together they guide him
between her folds. Sliding into her--slowly,
so slowly--the water makes them buoyant,
motion easy, they become a tide rolling
in and out.
She's leaning on him,
rocking back and forth, and he takes his
hand to swirl his thumb on her clit. Vapor
rises from the tub, the water swirls and
splashes up and around them, and soon she
feels it building---in him, in herself.
It's pushing, pushing for release, the way
the earth itself is born in the sea. Soon,
she bursts apart and he's right behind her,
pulsing, shaking, calling her name again.
Time passes, how much,
neither of them could say. The water's now
comfortably warm, and they're lying still,
almost as if they were in bed. he's on the
bottom, and she's snug against his chest,
her head tucked into the crook of his neck.
The candle's burned low, and they float
in silence toward tomorrow, without a compass,
without hesitation. |
