moment

Waltz -  Rondo 

(slow and with feeling)

 by
Christopher (Bo) Bowman 

© copyright 2010  all rights reserved

She reaches out and grasps the brass dead-bolt, cold and metallic.  As she twists, it responds with a satisfying click as the bolt slides into place.  She always feels safe at this moment.  She stands transfixed in the dark kitchen gazing out the window.  Out into the darkness that has settled over the house.  A blanket of safety.  dark and still.  Like pulling a blanket up and snuggle down deep into a childhood bed.

A gentle rain falls from high overhead.  Such a light rain that it falls noiselessly. Only apparent by the glossy sheen it leaves on the world outside.  The world she sees is bathed in the warm yellow porch light.  Everything glistens and shines like new. 

She places the palm of her left hand against the smooth surface of the window.  Her skin absorbs the cold.  She watches diamonds on the glass.  Shimmering.  Rolling together into pools.  The staccato of droplets from the gutter begins at last.  The storm builds. The symphony has begun.

She turns and heads through the darkened kitchen.  Her bare feet caress the tile as she silently glides through the room.  The house is very still.  All the lights have been left off and as twilight resigned itself to night, the small house has followed suit. 

Quiet stillness fills the air.

She stops in the doorway from the kitchen.  The cool tiles still under the bare soles of her feet.  She stands and looks at him.  He is kneeling in front of the fireplace.  The room is bathed in the dancing light of the small fire now burned mostly to ember. 

She can see he is adding wood, rolling the burning log with long black tongs.  He exposes the underside.  Red rubies encrust the log, twinkling with potential fire.  Each on the verge of bursting into flame.  She smiles as she empathizes.  Her stomach is in perpetual knots.  Her knees weak.  Her body ready to burst into a white hot explosion of flames.  Like the flames in the hearth, ready to consume. 

Hungry.

Even in silhouette his old denim shirt has the flat comfortable glow of  soft cotton, well worn.  Well loved.  It is stretched across his back. Screaming to be caressed.  To be ripped off.  To be worn later by her.  To be stolen, and never washed for fear of loosing his scent.  Washing away his molecules that are merging with the fabric even as she watches.

The pungent smoke mingles and hangs in the still air full of static power from approaching thunder.  But this power goes unnoticed.  It is lost to the background as the tingle in the air that she feels whenever he is near.  Electricity in the air.  A spark ready to ignite. Hot combustion.

She watches his shoulders move beneath the shirt.  His arms.  His hand as they work to slowly, carefully massage and coax the small ruby encrusted log into  what will be a roaring fire.  She knows to well his talent for this.  Her own fire long neglected has been stoked back to life.  Long forgotten, and unattended, it had been a surprise, its potential.  Its intensity.  She was momentarily jealous of the fire absorbing so much of him.

He stands up slowly. Calm. Relaxed.  She marvels at his depth.  His reserve.  He stands perfectly still arms loosely at his sides looking down into the now rumbling blaze.

She steps off of the cold tile.  Her feet stick slightly as she pulls them away.  The carpet is a warm soft contrast underfoot.  She quietly crosses the small space.

She steps in close.  He is still and his back almost fills her vision.   Reaching out she touches the top edge of his jeans, ruff and soft above the belt.  She slides her thumbs along the edge moving closer. 

Her hands passing over the bumps of loops and belt.  The edge of the leather belt is cool and slick as it brushes against her fingertips.  The blue of his shirt fills her vision now as her hands move between his arms and surround him. 

The soft cotton, thick and soft under fingertips is cool yet his heat is just beneath the surface.    

Her hands now fill with him.  His shirt slides under her palms as she slips  in close and reaches up around his waist, under his arms over his chest toward his shoulders a smooth transition of soft fabric interrupted only by his body.   She pulls in.  Closer.  Closer. 

The world of dancing light vanishes as hands cross over him.  Her nose brushing against the cotton then slides down his back as she rest forehead against back.  Her black hair cascades down like a curtain around her face.  Blocking out the world.  She rests her head there.  Between his shoulders.  The material is cool at first against the flush of her skin. 

She pulls in tight.  Tighter. 

Only a thin layer of material lies between.  She can feel him in her arms.  Against her body.  She breaths him in.  Eyes closed.  She fills with the intoxicating closeness of the moment.  Her head fills with the scents of fresh laundry, wood, spice, something....something. 

He has not moved.  Not tensing against her touch.  He makes no sound.  He understands this moment.  Just his breath moving slowly in and out.  In and out. 

She knows this more by the expanding of him in her arms than any sound.  She stands pressed against his back. Arms filled with him.  Lungs filled with him.  Mind filled with him. 

The world slows down. 

And stops.

The fall is weightless. 

Dizzying. 

She knows her body is still pressed tightly against him.  But the other her, the other her is falling.  Or floating. 

She can’t be sure. 

The blackness is so complete.  The sound of thunder is only her heart.  Or is it the storm. 

Or are they the same.

His movement is so slight, so small, so smooth she barely registers the change.  Where a moment ago she was pressed into his back his arms now encircle her as well.  Her face now pressed into his chest.  A moment ago it was his wallet that pressed into her soft belly, now it’s something else.

He rests his face in her dark hair.  His breath is hot on the top of her head.  She struggles to hold fast to reality but the falling. 

Falling. 

It draws her down and away.  She knows she is trembling, her legs going weak.  But he holds her up.  His arms surround her.  She no longer resists.  She lets go and falls into the abyss. 

Oh god is this it feels like she wonders.  Her body is no longer attached as she falls freely. 

Total surrender. 

Total commitment.

He shifts one hand to the small of her bare back.  It sears there.  The heat is an internal reaction to his touch. She knows this is so.  But the heat makes her gasp.  The sudden intake of breath crashes her back.  Back into her body.  Into her need. 

Her hunger.

He is there.  He is hers.  She is his.  So simple. 

So complicated.

She lets her head tilt back and finds his lips.  The shudder that floods her body is not a tremble.  It is a title wave.  Now she drowns.  The wave has taken her.  It carries her along in its briny grasp. 

Powerful.

Her hands grip his soft shirt back in two fists.  The cloth is held so tight she feels as if it will shed in her grasp.  But she holds tight.  If she were to let go the wave would carry her away.  Away from him.  She wants to stay.  To be here.  To be with him.  Somehow it’s what she has always wanted.  Just never knowing it.

She knows it now.

As their lips part she feels him there still.  Her lips feel swollen.  Dry.  They tingle like a sleeping limb.  

He is so close she can feel the heat of his face so near her own.  Her eyes still closed.  Her weight almost completely in his arms.  She is only aware of her toes in the carpet a million miles away by the mere fact that the inside of her left foot is pressed slightly against the cold leather of his boot.

If she had control of the legs she would move her foot and glide it gently against his.  But her mind is only partially in control.  Her body, although painfully aware, each nerve focused upon him, and flooding her mind with its input, has mutinied against her brain.  Her body leans into him.   Is drawn into him.  Claws at his very existence to be closer to him.  But to her minds command, it lies apart. 

Uncommandable.

Separate.

She try’s to open her eyes.  Regain control of herself.  Draw the fragments back together.

He moves his head slightly, lifting her up so slightly, he leans down and into her.  His cheek brushing hers.  His softness moves into her neck.  His breath trapped in the cascade of hair.  She feels the flame of his breath travel up her neck and her ear busts into flame from the heat.  All she can hear is the fire raging in her head.  The heat of his breath on the bare skin of her neck.  She feels her mouth open in a silent scream as she is consumed.

The fire moving down and through her.  Feeding on her flesh.  Igniting her soul. 

Stealing forever her heart.

A crime that will go unreported.  Property now shared.

Forever. 

He is been bending forward holding her.  Slowly, arms slightly tightening, he stands.  She is lifted up. Away from the earth.  The bonds that constrained her earthly self now break completely free as her feet leave the carpeting far below.  He is not that much taller than she.  But she feels as if the ground is now miles below.  She soars.

Heavenward.

She manages to negotiate temporary possession of limbs.  She wraps her arms around his neck.  Fingers twine into his  long soft hair.  Arms pull his shoulders toward her. Hungry lips seek out his.  She hungers for his taste.  She is famished, never feed, so very ravenous.  She thirsts for him.  She finds his lips, parted slightly.  She pulls him to her.  She pulls herself to him.  She drinks him in.  She longs to quench this thirst.  This hunger.

She slides her bared right leg around him.  Her soft thigh against hard denim.  She wraps his waist with her leg, the other slides around his thigh and calf.  She presses herself into him.  Hard and soft 

She can feel his belt buckle cool against her.  His lips, his taste.  His smell. Her taste.  Her smell.  Their essence now inseparable. Now different than either.  The same as both.  Unique. 

Perfection.

He slides a hand down from her waist.  Slowly.  Strong hands hold her to him.  The large soft cotton tee shirt she wears is stretch tight entangled within the embrace.  His hand moves down smoothly,  No ridges lie beneath the softens of her shirt.  The panties she had worn now lay half on the cool kitchen tile and half on the warm carpet where she had quietly steeped out of them.

She feels him stiffen at the realization.  His hand hesitates just on the curve of her thigh.  Momentarily lost.  Transfixed by the loss of landmark.  She smiles inside knowing him.  Knowing he understands the gift.  Knowing what is next.  He stands very still.  She pulls her lips slowly from his.  This time it’s her face into his neck.  Ruff.  Warm.  She hides there.  Nestled close.  Waiting.  Wanting.  She has stopped breathing.

 He is so still. 

Time hangs around them. 

The room is still. 

Quiet. 

A momentary lull before a thunderously powerful storm.   Emotions are held like a breath.  

Burning the lungs. 

Crying to be set free. 

They stand as one transfixed. 

Stationary. 

Teetering before a precipice.

Only a moment.

Together.

One.