The midnight hours

I am nearly asleep but I don’t hang up. Not tonight. Not this close to somewhere infinitely more peaceful than where we live in the daylight. It’s nice to be in this drifting together.

Joe.

My voice is breathy, sleepy. I’m still here. I don’t say it. Just think it. Say it. Think it. Who knows the difference right now as the stars pulse and disappear outside my opened window.

Lucy.

He says my name like a whisper. A song. I laugh suddenly, an echo down the phone that reverberates, shakes my body awake.

You should go, I say. It’s late. We should be sleeping.

Somewhere in the world it’s morning, Joe counters. It’s morning here too, in fact. If you think about it.

And I know we’re both checking our clocks as he says this. 2am. Passing through the midnight hours together. Roaming toward dawn like ghosts. It’s easier when we see the night through like this. Wide-awake when everybody else is dreaming. I’m thinking this, thinking riddles and half-worn philosophies as I slide between these hours of light and dark with Joe pressed up against my ear, yet so very far away.

You should go, I repeat. It’s late. Hang up

There is silence, and then a question. Softly.

Are you in bed?

Yes, my hand searches for the cool of my pillow. Aren’t you?

 No. Joe sounds weary now, sorry for himself. I’m at my desk. Sitting here in my suit. I haven’t even gone upstairs to change.

Poor Joe.

I’m teasing him. But I feel it. A sudden twitch of nerves at the thought of him sitting there in his white shirt, sleeves rolled, pants still buckled. I can see how the phone would be hooked awkwardly against his ear, see how his neck would arch toward the receiver. A sand-plane of skin I had not considered. Now, with my eyes closed, this is all I can see.

You should get rid of the suit, Joe. Get comfortable.

I mean it to sound a joke, but it’s that breathy, sleepy voice again. Making it sound like something more. Accidentally. I’ll always think – after – that it was accidental. The pause, and then the way he says – Tell me what you are wearing?

And suddenly it isn’t light anymore, this air between us.

I’m – my feet push up against clinging sheets. I’m … not wearing anything.

A crack down the phone. Electricity. I can hear the shift, even in the silence that follows.

And then this.

Lucy. Tell me what you see.

I … I stumble against the words. How are we here? Here we are. Seeing the line, only as we step to cross it.

Tell me what you see.

And I’m looking at my body now, kicking off the sheets. Wanting to do this. Suddenly. Wanting to wake up after years of sleeping.

Lucy?

I’m here, Joe. I’m … tell me what you want to know?

Photo by Joanne Piechota

to be continued …

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Start with your hands

From December 2012:

Start with your hands. I want you to place them here. And here. And here.  So much to discover if you take it slow, and I want you to take it slow. I want to feel the restraint (yours, not mine). I want to see the pulse in your tendon, the quick in your veins. I will tell you when it’s time to push bit to teeth, to run. I will tell you when to let go. I will throw open the gate and invite your release. But first, take it slow.

I know you’ve been here a thousand times before. But this. This is brand new. This is a revelation. This is an indoctrination. You have forgotten how to be surprised, and I will teach your body to remember. I want your body to remember. The very first, the shock of skin. The way that eyes flash and lock. I want your body to remember this.

So put your hands on me. Each finger tip holds a thousand stories. Dip them in ink and write me your history. Leave a trail of words that seep into my bones. I want to read what you have written there. I want to know where you have been, what you know. Tell me what you have to say, and what you have swallowed. Put your words into my mouth. Let me sing them back to you. I will be gentle with your song.

Start with your hands. All I want is this. And you. All I want is you.

Rock Bublitz portrait by Joanne Piechota

All that from an elevator ride. Yikes. Some volcanoes are merely sleeping …

Eidyia’s note: Keeping up my tradition of revisiting pieces a year later. Love what this little flight of fancy signified back then (a slow and sure waking for this writer). It also remains a valid reason as to why certain people should never read my stories 😉

All I want …

Start with your hands. I want you to place them here. And here. And here.  So much to discover if you take it slow, and I want you to take it slow. I want to feel the restraint (yours, not mine). I want to see the pulse in your tendon, the quick in your veins. I will tell you when it’s time to push bit to teeth, to run. I will tell you when to let go. I will throw open the gate and invite your release. But first, take it slow.

I know you’ve been here a thousand times before. But this. This is brand new. This is a revelation. This is an indoctrination. You have forgotten how to be surprised, and I will teach your body to remember. I want your body to remember. The very first, the shock of skin. The way that eyes flash and lock. I want your body to remember this.

So put your hands on me. Each finger tip holds a thousand stories. Dip them in ink and write me your history. Leave a trail of words that seep into my bones. I want to read what you have written there. I want to know where you have been, what you know. Tell me what you have to say, and what you have swallowed. Put your words into my mouth. Let me sing them back to you. I will be gentle with your song.

Start with your hands. All I want is this. And you. All I want is you.

Rock Bublitz portrait by Joanne Piechota

All that from an elevator ride. Yikes. Some volcanoes are merely sleeping …

Consecration

It would be the same if I walked in to that room tonight. I would still spend less than 30 seconds on my side of the couch. My legs would still snake over yours and I would still play with the soft of your earlobe as if it were mine. I would still kiss your mouth hard and fast and over and over (the kind of kiss you seemed to permit).

I would still follow you to the bathroom and sit on the edge of the tub while you showered, and I would still pretend not to care. I would still breathe deep at the sound of the water hitting your skin and feel the familiar liquid start to flow. I would still see this in the too-lit mirror – carefully careless dress falling off my shoulder, teeth on candied lip, eyes a little glazed and blinking too fast.

Because I would have still shot the vodka in the getting ready – my ritual of nerve and intoxication when the sun went down (I wonder if you ever knew how my throat burned and my knees wobbled each time I knocked at your door?).

All these years and you could still set me spinning. Still cause my hand to tremble when lifting my glass. Here it is, curled around the stem – an erotic embrace you once called it, but really it is the only solid thing, and the red you pour is our consecration.

It would be the same – even now. The sacred and the profane. Naked and cleansed, you would invite me in. An altar made and you the sacrifice. I would be tender in your destruction. Soaking the sheets, our own communion. One does not need God to be devout.

Consecration at body, remember

And after. My faith and your lack. It would be exactly the same. I have not wavered in this affair.

This is how it begins

It took you three full days.  Then the little red flag and your name.

‘hi’

‘hi …’

‘Did you get home alright the other night?’

‘Sure did’

‘I was thinking. I should have walked you home …’

‘Oh ha, that’s okay. I can take care of myself’

‘I’ve no doubt.  Still, I probably should have. It’s just …’

‘It’s just?’

‘It might have been more dangerous with me there’

‘??’

A full hour and then:

‘I might not have stopped at your door’

This is is how it begins. A little dance of words, each sentence extending an invitation to the next. One offering accepted and then another until your fingers are tripping over the keys in your eagerness to propel this thing forward. My response was immediate. I had waited three full days.

‘I like living dangerously’

And that was it. The beginning of us. Seduction can be so banal.