All this time (5)

8.17 PM

It’s not as if she hadn’t considered this. If she’s honest with herself, and there really isn’t any point in lying now, not with his chest pressed against her back, and his hand resting against her hipbone. She’s staring at the wall, staring at the particular hotelness of this room. The textured wallpaper, the brass and amber light fittings. The heavy drapes and the mirror large enough to watch – what? All that they have just done? How many lovers has that mirror reflected? How many twisted limbs, how many mouths searching, fingers grasping?

His fingers are now playing at her hipbone like she is a piano, she remembers – had forgotten – this habit of his. The way his hands are never still, not when they are touching her.

A rooftop bar. A hotel bed. She could blame the fifth drink, or the way they moved downstairs to drink it, to the booth where their legs touched under the table, and how neither moved away from the heat. She could blame the stories that went deeper. I missed you when-. I wanted to tell you that-. Maybe it was the dress she wore, or their unfinished business, or the stars and the gods interfering.

What it definitely is, Elliott thinks, fingers tapping at bone, is crazy. Three years no contact, and then only hours to bring them back to this.

She is happy for the first time in three years. Terrified too, because she knows what he hasn’t said, and so now she turns to face him.

Ash? Heart in throat, removing his hand from her hip. Lacing fingers together.

Perhaps she heard the stories wrong.

Did you set a date yet?

A pause, too small for the question.

Yeah. August 15th. The earliest we could get the church we wanted.

He doesn’t look at her as she pulls her hand away. Does not see her counting down, or the decision she makes. August 15th. Calendars and clocks. Anything could happen by then.

~ Elliott,  What We Have Left

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All this time – the end is now the beginning … have finally figured out a way to use this in my new story. Her story …

This is where we left them: https://bodyremember.com/2015/06/01/all-this-time-4/

me – and you

Here lie the bones of our beginning. No flesh pressed around them, no strained muscle or arched, aching nerve asking to be felt, to be seen. Just bones, bare. A scattering of calcified possibility, clean and cold, with no cracks through.

Through.

The only way out is through they say, but sometimes the ending happens too soon. I was only at the start of you. Just learning to read the line of your jaw and the set of your mouth. A tentative translation of your every, and your nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing comes from nothing, this too they say. But I have always known that potential contains its own kind of miss, its own kind of mourn. That you can still lose that which could have, should have, might.

Might.

We might have put flesh to bone. We might have strained and arched and ached toward each other. Pressed down and around the bare to warm that clean and cold. We might have cracked through to something new.

To that making of me – and you.

Rock Bublitz at body, remember

“Nothing real can be threatened…”

Falling

I had forgotten. This absence as presence. The thought of you wrapped around me, played between fingers, slid between thighs.

I had forgotten the breathing walls, the arching into darkness, the reaching for-

You.

I had forgotten. And now.

Your name on my lips, heavy. Falling. Snakes under my skin and yours grasped tight. Clay and thumbs pressed hard. Making.

You.

Now. I. Remember. You.

Jacqueline Bublitz at body, remember
Image by Joanne Piechota