Kitty Hawk

He happened upon her.

On his next to last day of the rental week he awoke early and went for a morning run...a bit before sunrise as the summer air was bound to get heavy with humidity later in the day.  His place was adjacent to the beach so he had to run past a few homes before he took the sandy path down to the shore.

There was a thin line on the horizon...the color of rust almost...and behind him the sky was black.

Morning on a beach is like an unveiling...the rhythm of the waves like REM-sleep breathing, long, slow, constant...the sun reluctantly climbing over the horizon like it is still tired...the air becoming lighter in the dawn and perhaps a bit of a breeze to wind-sweep your hair.

Strangers congregate across the sand, some with cups of coffee in their hands, holding up phones to take videos or capture photos...he was taking a few in his half jog when he saw her standing there watching the East...no phone, no cup of coffee...one arm along her side, the other behind her back.

She glanced at him slightly as he came closer, well aware he was sweating, breathing a little heavily and also was a complete stranger.

Morning, he said, raising his hand in what he hoped was a peaceful gesture.

Good morning, she replied, her voice low and southern...she had a quick smile that she gave to him.

He didn't really know what to do...it was obvious he had been running and it was obvious that he was now stopped...he could feel the day beginning, the sky lightening in color, the shape of other people further down the beach.

He wasn't really prepared for what he said next, but he was thinking it and it formed the words in his mouth and they slid out...escaped really.

You're prettier than all of that...his hand gesturing out towards the rising dawn, a combination of pinks and yellows.  All in front of this total stranger.

She smirked...oooookay.  

Just thought you should know.  He waved and started running again, away from her, his face flushed from his idiocy, shaking his head as he ran...thinking:  really?  That's what you thought to say?

He ran at least another mile before reversing course...praying she had gone inside, away, anywhere but that spot on the beach.

He drew near to where he had last seen her...she was gone.



Later that evening he went back out to the beach, a cocktail in his styrofoam cup...he walked down the same path he had that morning...the sands were fairly abandoned by the noon-time families and there were only a few outlines of people that he could see.  He didn't look for her...he had spent the entire afternoon reflecting on his adolescent gaffe...embarrassed that he couldn't have started the conversation out like an adult...like a "hello, my name is....don't you just love mornings on the beach?"

Instead he sabotaged his own efforts by throwing her a compliment that he was certain she had heard some derivative of many, many times in her life.

She knew how pretty she was...she didn't need to hear it from some sweaty stranger.

Fuck he muttered out loud.  He was still shaking his head as he sipped at his drink.

The waves had died down and the last of the seagulls started drifting away like the colors draining from the sky behind him.  The water had gone from green to a dark gray.

Unable to control himself he started walking back towards where he had originally seen her.  He thought he knew approximately where it was...he was barefoot and in linen pants and a tee-shirt.

He didn't see her.  He turned and went back home to his rental house...the last night of his stay.



He awoke before dawn...his head foggy from lack of sleep, no lack of bourbon.  He had run every morning this week and he felt like he needed this consistency currently.  So he set out just like he had every morning...down the left street, past the near-beach houses until he found the path out onto the sand.

Overnight storms caused an ugly gray morning...no chance of a sunrise...rather just a day moving from night to gray to light gray.

He went left down the beach rather than his usual right...he was definitely not looking to encounter her.  He ran closer to the water where the sand was flatter and easier to run on.

Ahead of him, about 100 yards was another runner, at this distance a dark shape...he didn't focus on it, just stored it in his mind as he looked down ahead of him.

Minutes later he realized it was a female runner...smoothly running, ponytail swinging behind her head, dark shorts, dark top. 

He picked up speed...he wanted to create a very small window of when he would pass her in the opposite direction...he would give her a courtesy wave, like all runners do when passing.

As he got closer he saw her trudging to a walk, a deliberate slow down and then she stopped.  Her hands were on her hips and he could see the fall and rise of her chest as she caught her breath.  He kept running.  He was almost upon her...he raised his hand in a wave...was near her, next to her and was moving past...in his peripheral he saw her turning towards him.

hey

He looked back over and she had turned to face him as he went by...he slowed...came to a walk, walking backwards away from her.

I'm sorry? he said...did you say something.  She nodded.

He started to walk forward, closing the gap between them...she had a little sheen of sweat on her forehead but other than that she looked like she just walked out of her car to go into a gym.

She was even prettier than yesterday, in the gray morning with a gray slew of waves around them, her face flush from the exercise. 

He waited.

Good morning, she said...again.   That quick smile.

He kept his words intact...and in his mouth...not escaping.

I apologize for yesterday...it was such an awkward start.

Her face changed...are you taking back your compliment.  

His face now changed...no!  no, not taking back anything...it was just...it wasn't the way I probably needed to happen upon you...

That's an interesting way to put it.

Well, it was just...it was in the moment.   He pointed to the ocean, gray and cool.  I mean I wouldn't compare you to this scene...out there.  For now.  It was just a beautiful morning...and I liked the comparison of seeing you in it.

I liked the comparison too.  Thank you.

She turned and picked up her jog again...he stood there.  She was getting further away.

She turned...Come run with me a bit...

He smiled and shook his head, disbelieving. 

He caught up with her and they ran together, occasionally bumping shoulders.  Above, a bit of cloud parted and a beam of yellow shone through.  It was all very beautiful.

Make Me

The storm had announced itself on the Weather app, a slight buzz indicating a nearing potential threat of a red streak on the radar...a 90% chance of a system moving north by northeast across the little blue dot indicating where they currently were.

Currently were.  An odd place...a whim actually...an Airbnb that randomly popped up in an Instagram feed with a front porch worth sharing a few nights upon...it wasn't a beach...it wasn't near water...rather it was in the woods and looked out over some rolling hills some might call mountains in the South.

We need to go here...it was sent as a text and he was involved in a customer call so he glanced at it and went back to work...driving home he remembered her link and opened it while driving...he kind of tucked it away in the back of his mind.

She sent him another text the next day...a simple one...a single question mark.  He remembered and clicked on the link...the house was remote, it wasn't near a beach...but it had an amazing large porch with rocking chairs.

He texted back:  ok



The storm was a full on throat-barreled semi hurricane...a thunder and lightning event that featured torrential rain and over flowing gutters...

make me a drink

He was inside towel drying the last of the dinner dishes, slight music from a Sonos system in the house and he thought he heard her.

So he walked outside to the porch, where the gale was blowing...she was gently rocking, taking in the storm...she looked relaxed, her hair curling a bit in the humidity of 100%...she was barefoot in jeans and a tee shirt, no bra...also known as his favorite outfit.

could you make me a drink please?

Her voice is a note in his mind that impacts certain parts of his brain...the pleasure notes, seratonin, memories from the past...it has a husk of southern wrapping, a bit of a lower octave like he's being told a secret.  He, of course, is instantly compliant.

what are we feeling tonight?  The wind has diminished and the rain feels less intrusive...the time between lighting and thunder is growing...the storm is moving off.

bourbon.  A perfect drink for her.  She will drink it with a lot of ice.  It will warm her a little in the cooling air but it will also soften her. 

He goes to the bag that they brought and he has hidden a nice rare antique...a Pappy Van Winkle 12.  She doesn't know he brought it...knows he had it though. 

He only uses one ice cube because you cannot do that to Pappy.

Here you go, pretty.

She takes it from him...her eyes very dark in the evening...he feels their weight as he feels it every time she lingers upon him.

thank you.

She always sniffs the glass, just above the rim...it's like her hands are wrapped around a small fire.

hmmmm...this smells delicious.   She takes a first tentative sip..then looks up at him.

what is this?

never mind what it is

no really



it's the 12 year old.

pappy?

Yes.

You brought it here?

Yes.

But it is only for special occasions I thought?





And so it is.  He looked out over the streaming rain, her quiet smile in the dark, the curled ends of her hair, and remembered how special she truly was.

Stitching

God, unraveling from her was like undoing a solidly applied and tied off stitch.

It was the visceral cut of tissue, a plunge into skin and the splatter of blood....it was paper-cut raw and instantaneous. 

The alignment of flesh once properly enjoyed.

Leaving her was like turning away from a sunset...walking away from the beach.  Departing was emptying the vessel,  dropping your phone and seeing the cobweb of broken glass.  It wasn't just an emotion...

She had sewn herself in place.

She had kept herself quiet, going about her world...but slowly, stitch by stitch, she entwined them.

Her glances.  Lifting her eyes when he passed.

Full on stare when she was above him.

A blink in a goodbye. 

She threaded and needled and he opened and exposed.

He was a sampler...those old learning cloths that young girls would write the alphabet upon...their name...their town...their birthdate.

She wrote her story upon him...about them.

She held her threads and needle and pressed against him...he was covered in her...smothered in her.

He let her tattoo herself upon him and he embraced it...wanting the piece to grow bigger...their artwork invisible to the world, on full display to them.

The blue veins on her forearm...the blue veins slightly seen on her breasts.   They felt like they pulsated in his own...her blood and his. 

Together.  Stitched together.

It felt right...not like a sampler.  Rather like a heart transplanted into another...surgically inserted, perfectly connected, restoring the breath of another human being.

Alight

He glanced inwards as he passed the slightly opened door...she was still asleep, facing away from him and he watched her slow breathing raise the sheets ever so slightly.

The whirring of the fan created a nice white noise and she slept undisturbed.

He moved down the hallway and into the kitchen, the sun a gold dot through the trees...he plugged in the coffee maker and it bubbled awake, and the room smelled like the fresh brew...he banged the cast iron pan against the gas burner (shit, that'll wake her) and turned the knob to light the gas. 

He put four pieces of thick-cut bacon in the pan and it sizzled immediately.  It too added to the fragrance of the morning, knowing it was one of her favorites.

Leaving the confines of the kitchen quickly, he stepped out the back door to the potted plants...he forgot scissors and went back inside, flipping the bacon and returning to the flowering greens.  He cut a group of foot long lavender and went back inside in search of a vase.

The kitchen smelled like a diner...strong coffee and bacon.  He forgot to get her a tomato so once again he went outside to get one from their garden. 

A black butterfly alighted on the tomato plant for a brief second and as he drew near it fluttered briefly in front of him and then flew across the yard.

Stepping back inside, tomato firmly in his grip, he washed it and started slicing it.   He sprinkled a little salt on the slices and set them aside.

He stepped gingerly down the hallway and peeked his head into the bedroom doorway...he saw her legs moving and knew she was waking.

He walked back into the kitchen and took a heavy ceramic cup from the cabinet...he poured her a cup of the steaming coffee, put two bacon strips on a plate and added the tomato.

He balanced the meal fairly adroitly, and she was sitting up when he re-entered the room.

Sleep had made her hair disheveled...well, it wasn't helped by the tumultuous tussle they enjoyed prior to midnight...a sweaty collision of bodyparts and murmurings...but she had a similar smile.  It grew when she saw his handful of breakfast.

He handed her the cup first and she took a tentative sip, her eyes hovering over the hot liquid of exactly the same color....she glanced at the plate of bacon and her eyebrows arced slightly.

He pulled the dish behind his back, away from her...she frowned but he leaned in for a kiss and she smiled and gave him a full on memory of hours ago.

In the brief moment over breakfast she alighted upon him...the morning began again all over for him and it was even more beautiful than before.

Touch up

The dusks are starting to pinken...no airline contrails to leave a scratch of white across the evenings...the dark greens beneath the trees are starting to flicker with the yellow blinks of fireflies.

There is a radio somewhere playing...low piano music.  The floorboards set off a familiar groan while I walk from room to room...from the foyer near the front door.  I open it and look out onto the long lane, a slight uphill expanse from the road behind it.  I can remember you walked up at times...and in a current lighting of the sky I can clearly see you...engulfed in the soft yellowing day.  I can remember your walk...your amble...and the way you walked up the stairs onto the porch and into the doorway.

The expanse is darkening now in the twilight...there is no shape or outline of you approaching.  I shut the door...

Beyond the foyer is a small library...it is filled with books.  It is where you and I first started...it has a long wall for the books and a corner fireplace.  It has a loveseat with a lamp...the room smells of old paper and leather...of faint long-ago fires.  It is quite dark in the room, the way we preferred...our quietness with just the split of a wood crackle every now and again.

I move past the library...past a door that is locked...will remain locked forever.  Behind it nothing but destruction and unreconstructed repairs...I move past the door.

The kitchen looks to the west and it is an orange from the sunset in color...blood orange.  It is here where we sat with coffee, quietly enjoying waking to each other.  Tussled hair and pajama bottoms.
The sun rising on the opposite side of the house so the long beams from the front windows pierce in and lay in rectangles across the floor.

It's like you were the daylight itself, moving through the house...warming me.  Sometimes there were storms but so rarely.

And now you have returned outside...only to peer in occasionally.    I invite you in, wish you'd return.

I return to my work in the house, touching up tiny holes in the wall...thinking about your return...covering up the black and restoring the patch to something brand new.