I tucked my scarf tight. We drove west.
Escaping the city, we dove into a sea of field greens. The road swerved. Goats nibbled against a distant fog bank. Barns were relics of times past, aged a burnt red. We spoke of a life in the country, tickled by the knee-high grass. I’d have a camera dangling from my side as her dress flowered behind her sandaled toes. We’d wander until shadows grew long and the fawn nestled in open pasture.
She drove further, and we passed the reservoir. It was fenced in yellow leaves, grabbing the horizon with its lavender sheen. When I last stood by this water’s edge, a cider’s steam warmed my cracked lips. The waves careened against the harbor as birds skated past. My father’s hand stretched across my mother’s back gripping her shoulder, their sweaters zipped tight. They’d look into one another, nose to nose. And as I’d sit with dangling feet and tempered breath, worries left my gloved fingertips.
And now, like a spotlight, sun caressed her brown hair, then her cheeks. Beyond her black sweater, I met her hazel eyes. And with a blink, her’s met mine. Amidst our afternoon escape, we smiled, speaking a language founded in silence.
I felt alive. If just for these fleeting moments, with time slowed to a Douglas Fir blur, I’d found someone.
We were swallowed in sheets. But like two feathers we lay softy, the world outside rustling. Behind her ear’s cold curve I curled a stray hair, and then another. I considered her chest against mine and how our toes lay. Tugged by sleep’s grip, I was lost in her freckles’ disarray and our limbs’ perfect knot. The sun rose, our eyes closed. And with heavy breath, we settled as one.