Outside the bathroom in the expansive space some music played,
too low to
hear the words but enough to be noticeable.
One table lamp was on,
lighting up a tiny corner of the room where
the rest of it was in a glow
from the late afternoon sun spilling in from the
large window.
Near the bed two candles burned in tiny whites and yellows.
The space felt like a spa and her proximity
made it even more languid…
her movements were liquid, like she was underwater…
from his view she fluttered in and out of the scene,
a ballet of preparation…
and he caught parts of her scent, her lotions and perfume.
She smelled clean, the entire room felt showered and
scrubbed and her glances were
lingering upon him as much as
the soap sensation he inhaled.
She came to him and leaned down to kiss him.
A demure bit of a hint.
Something portending. The whiff of copper
before a lightning strike.
Her mouth was warm and relaxed…it was a greeting.
But her eyes had been open and they
squinted something more inviting…
a bit more promising.
If she was a recipe she was the
type handed down from a southern
grandmother’s hand…old school
cursive with lard as a critical
ingredient and a loving amount of
measurements poured out from
memory versus math….
the heft and feel of flour or a rolling pin
that had seen its days…
perfection handed down via generations,
never skimping or deviating but
rather just evolving slowly until
the taste on the tongue was perfection…
each and every time.
If she were to be a rain storm she would
be in August, in the heat
of summer after an oppressive afternoon
with low dark rumbles
starting to echo in the outskirts of an evening…
a relief effect of
anticipating the cooling impact upon arrival…
when the lights in
the house blink on and off due to the interruptions…
the flash-bulb moments and the near immediate thunder…
concussive….
the smell of the rain and the noise on the roof…
you felt safe inside but were amazed at the
rawness outside…
and when you slowly succumbed to your
bed the splashing and
winds became calming…
white noise that helped you to sleep.
If she was a season she would be Fall…
mercurial, at times like an
Indian Summer, blooming after a
season of heat and signaling the
temperate ways of cool mornings
yielding to warm afternoons…
they type of day you want to start
with in bed, layers of covers
and then emerge to a gauzy fog
only to have the sun burn through it…
and be warm upon the bricks of a stoop…
meanwhile,
the colors exploding around you,
twirling to the ground
and a thousand versions of
red and orange ultimately
turning to the color of her brown eyes.
He leaned back on the bed,
smelled the candle
burning its scent into the air,
the afternoon yellowing
through the window and the soft music playing.
He had found perfection.
