Pocket Full of Sunshine

Take me away.

Where, he asked.

Steal me somewhere.  Someplace warm.

In his mind he responded:  That would be easy…for you to climb upon me, fully clothed, fully tousled,  let us kiss with eyes open, smiling…that would be a warmth.  An emanating one, wasp stings on the lips, the gentle pillow-weight of you upon me, spilling on me.  You would be warm as well.

Instead:  Mexico?

Too dangerous…but something like that, where the beach meets the sand…she was motioning with her hand like drawing a line with her palm, a vast expanse of beach of white meeting pale green water. And I would get sunburn…and tanlines.  She squished her eyes into a smile at the last word, an eyebrow raising.  

He did love her tanlines…

In his mind responded:  The tanned areas are the latitude lines that divide up your earth, the pale areas such hot zones, where I knew instantly if I crossed.  I could feel the upheaval in your terrain, the earthquake shudder and aftershocks…even if I just lightly touched…just lightly tasted the salty regions that had once been protected but were now unprotected, leaving only a thin tan line as the last defense.

Instead:  Well, what about the Caribbean then…maybe the US Virgin Islands…you know, like real America? 

She smiled a response….maybe…what about someplace cool?

Cool?  Like Fonzie or like the weather?

Fonzie…

In his mind he responded:  I would love to see you dance, to see you sweat, to hold a drink or maybe a few drinks and watch your inhibitions drain from you, in a loud and clamorous place, with lights and darkness and people and strangers but all I would be able to see would be you, bangs sticking to your forehead with a slight sheen, your mouth is a bit of a smile, but mouthing the words to the song…and putting your head down as you raised your arms and moved your hips.

Instead:  We could go to New York…go to a club, roll out in a limo, go buy a dress a BCBG, heels from Jimmy Choo, perfume from Cartier, undergarments from Amanda Lorenzani—

Undergarments?

Undergarments…you know, but really nice undergarments.

Well, she paused….what if, you know, I didn’t like to dance in undergarments.

You’d like to dance in these.

Okay…I guess.

In his mind he responded:  You don’t realize the unwrapping of you is exquisite, the peeling of layers, the slow revealing…it is like watching the moon rise in an orange of autumn, it is so spectacular in this dark black sky that all eyes are drawn to it.  It mesmerizes, it disarms, perhaps even paralyzes…it’s silly, it’s trite, but even watching you remove a heel, or remove a sock, exposing the calf or sweet painted toes is a visceral experience…imagine only if I got to unveil you like those old art movies, with a sheet covering you attached to a rope and suddenly somebody pulled the rope and there was this art object…that’s what unwrapping you would be like.

Instead:  Maybe we could compromise…maybe no bra.

I guess it depends on the dress.

Well if you’re not wearing underwear we’ll never make it to a club.  Maybe down the elevator.  Definitely not past the taxi.

Again, she looked up at him, regarding.  He loved when her imagination collided with his, particularly when the topic was a bit outside of their daily banter, and her eyes narrowed and her mouth was more of a smirk then a smile.  The thought of them interlocked in the backseat of a taxi, the driver straining in the rearview mirror, narrowly missing pedestrians and oblivious to the sounds of honked horns and profanities thrown to this teetering, lurching sugar-shack making its way down Broadway.  He smiled and hers widened.

Fine, I’ll wear underwear.

Well at least we agree on one thing.

True…well, where else could we go?

In his mind he responded:  I would take you to an art museum, in a hall of Monet’s, where we could while away the entire day just being pensive, just reading about inspiration, colors, moods, feelings and imagination.  I would disagree with an interpretation but would end up seeing your perspective.  I would buy you a glass of wine in the atrium, and we would go to the outside gardens, mimicking colors we had just seen in art now live in the dirt.  We would try to re-imagine the waterlilies and then go back in, sneaking our wine past the guard and listening to our footfalls as they echoed in the large sterile chambers, proudly displaying the artist’s handiwork.  We would agree on a favorite painting and we would google the amount it cost to purchase and then I’d tell you how long it would take me to save up for it.  And you’d go buy a cheaper replica in the art museum store, a 3x5 postcard so you could put on my mirror so I would remember the day…which would be redundant, since I knew I would never forget.

Or maybe we could go to an antique bookstore, where the scent of dust and linens hung in the air, where we would find old books of poems, and I’d read you one stanza and you’d silently read another, not willing to trade orations but rather preferring to absorb it yourself silently.  Finding a first edition, finding an autographed version, finding worlds undiscovered, finding words undiscovered, reading Pablo Neruda in both Spanish and translated and trying to find which version was the more romantic.  Struggling with the words in my limited skills but finding the Spanish versions much more vibrant, much more oozing of emotion.  

Instead:  Maybe we could go to a museum…

A museum?

Yeah, maybe.  An art museum perhaps.

She bounced her head back and forth, like in a debate.

Maybe.

Or perhaps a bookstore?

A bookstore…nah.  I’ve been to those before.

Not with me.

True.  I don’t know.

“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.” 

Uhm, well…

That was not me saying something….that was me quoting something.

A quote?

Yes…a quote.  From Pablo Neruda…he was Chilean, but I prefer to just think of him as a Spanish poet.  You know, because…he wrote in Spanish.

I know what Chilean is.

Te amo sin saber como, ni cuando, ni de donde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
asi te amo porque no se amar de otra manera,


sino asi de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mia,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueno

She was looking at him, not understanding but also understanding enough.

I think the Spanish version is more delicate…primarily because it ends in the word “sueno”, which means dream versus sleep…it is open to interpretation but it’s like saying I’m going to sleep vs. I’m going to dream. I like the “going to dream” version…it implies I might see you there.

She nodded slightly.

So let me ask you now…where would you like to go? He asked.

I don’t know…

Well if you wanted to ask me, I’d tell you.

Okay, where would you like to go.

He moved to her, until his knees were touching hers. She was with her hands on her thighs and he reached out, and took hold of them, her hands on top of his, the bottom of his resting on her legs.

Nowhere. I would just prefer to stay right here.  As long as you simply would allow me.