He took the steps deliberately, one at a time. She fixed him with her gaze, watching like a hawk spotting prey. He sidled up to her, sat down at her knee, allowing her to be above him, in the dominant position. He felt the heat from the floor boards, even seemingly feeling the heat of the nails in the floor boards, and felt the dust brim all around them. It was a Texas evening, portending a night of dark skies and perfectly circled dots called stars.
He reached around her legs, jean clad, wonderful calves, tied up in a pair of boots. She watched him, her cold drink in her hand, glass sweating as all get-out. She crunched ice, her eyes beaming and amused. He was probably powerless, but he didn't feel like he should admit it. But she already knew.
His envelopment of her calves resulted in him kissing the brim of her knee. An arched eyebrow from her was her response.
You are aiming way too low. She said it with a smile, a whiplash statement, drawling out in the syrup of her voice.
He kissed the jean clad knee again.
I have got to earn this he said.
And with that, he laid his head against her legs, watching the sun burn a hole in the West. He heard her swirling the last icicles of drink in her glass, and he felt her more than heard her put the glass down. She touched his shoulder, there, against him. It was a weight, a spot, a finger, a hand that belonged to her and now was against him.
They watched the sun broil in the sky, immolating itself against an afternoon. Heat, colors, and the rhythm of an evening collapsing in a chaos of a night. It was a violent ending, the sun crashing in a horizon and exploding in pinks and blues, colors and hues, all seemingly resistant to the ink-blue rising rapidly to rush at their feet.
I am he started to say.
Comfortable. She finished the sentence for him.
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