Indelible

I saw this tattoo, this image and it struck me.  The irony of a water color tattoo, the scribbled image of beauty, the contrast against the pale skin.   I loved it. I loved coloring outside the lines. I love the remarkable study of an arm discolored. I love the idea of questioning "why did you choose this?"

I'm coming to realize that I am more of an artist than anything else. Your portrait hangs in the galleries of my mind. And yet these are not posed shots or serious studies. These are snippets. Cropped shots. They are a Kodak moment in my permanent ink mind. Irreversible.  Cave man drawings to last a millennium. To be studied by men way smarter than I. But I will always recall the remarkable beauty of you, the clash of colors of you and the ink spot unnamed crayons of you that alit upon me like an unleashed tattooist needle that carved into me a scenery I so gladly wore. And if...if I had to simply and indelibly describe it to a sketch artist or to a stranger, I think your palette stained upon me in such gorgeous visage would look faintly, barely and perhaps exactly like this photo above. Brilliant. Incandescent. Bold. Scribbled. Unmatched. Unequaled. Irreverent. Irreplaceable. Exotic. Enticing. Visceral. Violating. Trailing off in the end, the way you colored me in such brights and bruises only to spill away, trickle away, leaving a slightly darkened trail in your retreat from the kaleidoscope that you created.  Staining me in your colors that I wore in your absence. 

In A Place About the size of a Confessional--An Opera

Overture--

To anoint is to pour or smear with perfumed oil, milk, water, melted butter or other substances, a process employed ritually by many religions. People and things are anointed to symbolize the introduction of a sacramental or divine influence, a holy emanation, spirit, and power---Christian Worship Practices Definition

Aria--

In the steam he anointed her…a clear bottle of L’Occitane Almond Moisturizing Shower oil…liberally used.  He glazed her skin like the way he felt her eyes glazed him in a gaze.  Not perfect, but rather haltingly…humanly.  Unfamiliar…the way a discovery is made and shared.  Exploring.  Eyes held tight in a gaze but every once in awhile he strayed and let his lens float across her body in a delicious absorption of her…her skin…her colors…her pinks and her pales…and then back to her eyes.

A muted Finale--

In the end, in his briefest memory, he likened it to this:

 Do you remember the times when you saw the horizon glaze into gray, knowing a storm was a’coming?  Do you remember the reluctance in leaving the humid static of the air, and then going out in the rain when it came?

Do you know when a thunderstorm has collapsed over you, darkening the house, tormenting the outdoors, and in a cool and quiet room you can see the shapes and outlines by the flickering light of a scentless candle? 

 

And if you held the heated glass of that candle in your hand…a candle that had been winking for minutes, maybe an hour, shedding sweet wax into a liquid that pooled at the top, a lighter color than below, and if you tilted it the liquid would ebb and flow…

And if you were to blow out the flame in a gray plume and let the warmth radiate through your hands as you stood still in the blackening darkness, the outside world plundering in lightning and thunder, noise and wind breathing warm against the windows and shaking loose in flinging branches and leaves, the heated glass now warming beyond your hands, along your arms and shoulders, and the hail now clamoring and the storm getting more violent, more savage…

…and just as you think the warmth of the candle can cause no further heat you let your finger just barely touch inside the glass, and touch the wax that  is just now beginning to  harden…warmth emanating and holding a hint of heat below… and you plunge into the thin layer, it penetrates into the below and you feel a  hot wet molten warmth that is unlike any heat you have ever known…and it pools against  you, enveloping, sticking to you, heating, hastening, gripping, clutching…and it warms you as you listen to the afternoon moan outside as it shudders and collapses, giving in, giving up…exhausted and wrung from a storm that has raged on the outside…and on the inside.

That is what he remembered…

Scene IV

The rest was a blur. 

Can I do your legs?

My legs?

Your legs. 

The slight placement of towels, the turn of the knob to let the HOT side spurt into the sink, a washcloth thrown into the bottom as the steam emanated from it. 

What are you doing? She asked with her sitting on the sink, legs extending beneath her robe. 

Prepping. 

Prepping?

Prepping. 

The slight lotion was from an oil based substance that he had used pre shave. It smelled of sandalwood and it was dispensed in a dropper. He twisted the top and on her right leg he dropped clear  honey colored droplets from the top of her ankle to just around her knee. He then rubbed his hand in an almost massage around her shin, her calf, working the muscles and letting the slippery aroma arise amongst them. 

That feels good  she murmured. He continued without responding. 

After the oiling he turned off the spigot. The washcloth steamed gray against the white porcelain. 

This is gonna be warm he warned. He took out the rag and wrapped it across her leg. She grimaced a tad but then relaxed, the warmth like a bite or a grip on her calf. It lessened in heat and melded. 

He removed the rag, throwing it into the sink and turning on the HOT again. He took out a gray bottle of Clinique shaving cream, squeezed a dollop into his hand and smoothed it against her leg. He felt the tiny cactus bit of stubble. He loved that it reminded him of her humanness, her daily habits, the growth of hair, an intimate visit. 

He pulled out a razor, fresh from the package and with its four steel blades he drew a line down her leg like a furrow. Somewhere, sometime ago he had put on an Andrea Bocelli disc. The dulcet singer was in full voice off in the other room. 

He was careful around her ankles. 

Be careful. 

I will. He was close to her leg like a surgeon, leaning over her and scrutinizing his work, rubbing a hand where the blade had passed. Sometimes he went back on some stubborn spot. 

He finished after a bit with her legs shining and preening in the light. He put some more oil to lotion them up, two piano stands of perfect human flesh that were smooth and relaxed. 

He'd forgotten that he had poured her wine. He'd forgotten about the Bocelli disc. Her head was forward, almost in a sleep mode. Any tension he could feel in her legs was gone. 

I thought the shampoo was great. The leg shaving...

Yeah?

A different level. 

In the sink a few stark tiny hyphens dotted the white with their darkness. In his mind he thought pieces of her. Real pieces. In his mind's eye they were tiny needles pulled from her. Extracted. It humored him to think that she had brushed up against him, sometimes literally but mostly figuratively and he felt like in each collision she had left such stinging nettles that remained unseen but certainly felt inside of him.  He had wondered what they looked like and now he knew. 

Can I have more wine?  Her request interrupted the slight quiet. 

Of course. Besides with that oil on you perhaps you should take a shower. 

The look she gave him was a pause. She stared, quietly, eyes moving to each of his and he saw a certain color in her cheeks. 

Perhaps we?

Scene V

The One with the Scene from the Sink

Scene I, Act I

It had been a random question, a random request...like most things they were connected by things seemingly unconnected.  He loved that randomness, that suddenness and unexplained coincidence.  Why did we suddenly encounter each other, why did we suddenly connect...either way he felt it was some cosmic force outside of his control that inevitably brought them together...and he welcomed it.  Call it what you want...fate...timing...circumstance.  He didn't care. 

I have a weird question for you...he offered randomly in a phone call.  The day was rust, ending...oranges and coppers in an afternoon disintegrating.

Okay...she responded...in that way that was like being asked to put on a blindfold. 

The next time you're going to take a shower...or a bath...or anything aquatic...would you let me interrupt you before you start?  

The silence was a bit of a tell...she was likely wondering where it was going...and her opinion of him was likely dimming.  He didn't like the silence, but he sort of needed it to proceed.

Can you tell me why? she had asked.

I want to wash your hair. 


Scene II, Act II

From the first scent of crisp grapefruit and green almond to the romantic notes of camellia petals and lily, Shu Uemura's Moisture Velvet is utterly addictive.  --From the website

Shopping for women's shampoo is like shopping for women's shoes...infinite varieties...endless colors.  He fell in love with the Shu Uemura's description and ordered it via Fed Ex.  When the simple package came he scrambled to open it, slitting open the taped ends, and unscrewing the top.  He inhaled it...and let the scent roil into him and upon him.  It was exactly how he imagined she smelled, when scrubbed, when cleansed.  He screwed the top back on.

She called a day or so later.

Uhm...hey...I'm likely to shower soon.
She said it like she was announcing a visit...or a trip to the grocer's.

Look he started...I know it's a little off.  Just indulge me...I just want to maybe do something that is intimately intimate...without voice trailing off...being intimate.

Again, the kind of silence where you imagine every scene from every horror movie replaying in her mind and whether or not this is violating some sort of border-line.

Come on over tomorrow around five.  I'll be the one in the robe.

He laughed a slight one.  I'll be the one with the potions.  

The phone clicked dead.

Scene II, Act III

There is something sensual in warm waters, in the clasp of hair in a grip...there is the the spill of gushing across the scalp, the massaging of liquid into a lather, the feel of the delicate head against the press of a hand, the scents arising when the liquid meets the body, the massage of tender tendrils into the back of her hair, underneath, the layers of her hair folding into his hands, her closed eyes, he could see the pulse of her heartbeat in her throat, the lights of the bathroom cascading on her, the warming suds being gripped, slippery in his grasp, the feel of his fingers against the shape of her, her hair blinded by whites and bubbles and lathering, soaping, watching her lips gradually part as she relaxed, feeling the tension leave her like the whites escaping her wet hair, drowning in an instance, her eyes shut, the grapefruit scent rising and the warm waters steaming the mirror, and she is so close...so close...she is a kiss-close...and his hands meld into her, his thumbs along the tops of her ears, massaging gently, his fingers grazing into her part, letting the shampoo mix and meld and he is cleaning her...he is shining her...he is preparing her...she is clean and letting the warmth of waters pull out any impurities...while he stares down at her facade and imagines something all together impure and then tirelessly cleans her again, and again, and again.

Scene III, Act I

She is sitting at the edge of the tub, robe clenched tight, hair in a towel.

Well...that was different she said.  She wore no disguise, no make up.  She was perfectly clean.

Yes...it was.  But I hope not in a bad way.

No.  Actually, it was very good.

He let that sit between them...he wanted to tell her how beautiful he thought she was, no make-up, perfectly cleansed...unprotected by mascara and blush, lotions and potions.  She was nubile, sexual, virginal, unencumbered.  But he didn't want to ruin the quiet peace.

Can you tell me why you wanted to do this?

He thought for a second.  She looked like a picture from the 1950s.  But a perfect picture.

Because I thought you wouldn't let me.  Because there is something very vulnerable in letting somebody stand above you, hovering, while you're exposed...your neck's exposed, your throat...you're there and you're giving in a bit.  I didn't think a lot about it then, but standing over you...yeah, I could see it.

What?

The vulnerability.  

I didn't feel that...you didn't make me feel that way.

Good.

But at first I felt a little...you know...

What.

Uncomfortable.  Like you were in on a secret.

I get it.

 But I didn't hate it.  Just was maybe irritated...you know, like personal time was no longer personal.

No...I get it.

Well, I enjoyed it after I got used to it.

He let out a short laugh.  Worst endorsement ever.

What am I supposed to say?  I'm not used to this...so...different.

It's the different that makes it matter.  It's somebody else's hands...somebody else's grasp.  A stranger.  A friend.  Undefined I guess.  It's a little bit of an invasion.

And what if I grow to like it?

He stared at her.  Absorbing her like an afternoon shaft of sun on a carpet.  That would be my favorite thing.

The bathroom still stood misty, air fogged from the steam of the water, the scent of grapefruit and spices still lively, just a tad of humidity in the space between them and its effect was to feel like a warm cloth clung to them, between them, a tiny web that intersected and held them together, apart in the room but his hands still tingling from where they had just recently touched the spaces and places of her.