Cool grey light through a tall sash window. Sound of a busy street below. The chirping bustle of Frank and Alysa getting ready for another day at the shop. Just a plain ol’ morning. Like so many before and since. An otherwise unremarkable day.
The weight of history. The vacuum to follow.
By your side – yet soon to be distant.
Still a little heavy – with sleep, with comedown – we blink at one another, seeking recognition. I trace my finger down the line of your jaw; you run your fingers through my bed messy hair. In the quiet we kiss. Slow and deep. Until our blood begins to thunder and you are on top of me. Inside of me. Your penis. Your urgency. My opening up. The flood that drowns us both.
The sweat soaked, breathless aftermath.
As we lay there – not wanting to break the trance. Not even with words. Let alone with a thought.
For a second I think I can hear your heart beating. That fragile, primal pulse counting out the measure of your life. The on and the off. The sound and the silence. Together and alone.
And deep in my chest, the same drummer drumming. The same river flowing. The wonderful circle of everything.
And of course, my yearning.
In the shower. You washing my hair. Running your warm, silky hands all over me. Your cock hard against my back. Your breath in my ear. My glad surrender. All other considerations melted down to pleasure. To oblivion.
Only when the hot rain stops and the cooler damp of the day prickles the skin do we truly wake up. To find ourselves naked and on the verge of shivers.
With empty hours to fill until …
On the beach we brace ourselves against the steely ocean air as we look out at the horizon and ponder what lies beyond it. Over the edge of the earth. Past midnight.
We hold hands. Stroll. Looking like lovers.
Yet still we cannot find that much to say. Perhaps it has all been said.
Out of the blue, you observe, “I think your beach is much nicer,” and I agree.
“In fact, I think your whole world is much nicer,” but about this I cannot be so sure.
“What makes you say that?” I wonder.
You smile at the sea, then turn to look at me. “I bet you have people who really love you; rather than just say they do.”
“Well, I really love you, Bret.”
“I know,” you say – your voice just about to crack.
I watch – knowing there is no immediate remedy, at least not within my power – as you squeeze your eyes tight and a single pearldrop emerges briefly, before you wipe it away with your index finger and take a deep, centring breath.
I wait, hoping you might say the words I have been longing for. I see your lips part, as though to form them. Your bottom lip trembles. There is an elastic pause.
But you choke back the idea – exhale a sigh of consolidation – and I know that I will never ever hear you say them.
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