Thursday, October 15, 2009

You know I'll never tell.

We sit across from each other at a poorly set table in a quiet restaurant and I see her forehead peeking out from behind her hair and I am scarcely able to fight my instinct to brush her bangs aside. I wish at this moment for X-ray vision to look through the bangs and the forehead and the skull and see directly inside of her brain in order to try and discover if her thoughts at that very moment are as passionate and impure as mine.

But that is for another time, I tell myself between sips of egg drop soup. But I want her, I want her, I want her. I want her against me, beside me, behind me, in front of me, on top of me, underneath me. There is nowhere I do not want her. I want to examine every square inch of her, admire her as a sculptor would, take her in and surround myself in Her.

She speaks, and I pay incredibly close attention, but when the words escape her lips they cease to be words and they become music and they pirouette into my ears and brush their fingers against my cheek and I can think of nothing except what she would look like in the dark.

Chicago would be good for us, I think to myself. We would be the ones that everyone wondered about, the ones that didn't quite seem right and whose union was perhaps strange and certainly unexpected, but it fit in that way that these things often do. The hustle of the city and the blue collar aesthetic of it would keep us grounded and we would live near the lake and rely on each other to stay warm.

After dinner has come and gone, we are asked if we would care for dessert. This inquiry, to my fevered mind, is a roulette table. If our time this evening is limited to this empty little restaurant, then yes, by all means, dear God on high let us have some coconut cake, some sweet yogurt drinks, whatever to extend the brief flash of brilliance this evening has found. Let us make this an epic meal, let us gorge until there is food in the back of our throats and we can do nothing but wait and drink and consort and gaze until closing hour arrives.

But if, in fact, there is more time for us, there is more space in your night and your mind, let us leave here this instant. I'll leave my wallet on the table and they can do with it what they will because it is of no importance to me. The current goal is to make it quickly and safely to somewhere quiet and secluded and dark on this flurry that is carrying us to places neither of us imagined tonight would hold.

And we will not need sleep. We will not need it because sleep is for lesser people. It is for those who do not have the tides of a connection like this and who cannot understand that there are some things worth staying awake for for hours and days and weeks. The months will come and seasons will go but we will be awake because a moment we sleep is a moment we are silent and still. And that will simply not do. We have greater things in store. We have a duty. We have a responsibility to any and all God, gods, pantheons, divine forces, or spiritual constructs that have shed a portion of their fire and given it to us, their faithful servants, in order for us to make the most of the passions that have been bestowed upon such worthy recipients.

That will surely sound egregious and extreme, and I accept that it may very well be those things and more. But I shall sleep tomorrow. Tonight, I will take you in.


Kels H. said...

Well done. Bravo.

hosander said...

lovely. I just finished The Fountainhead, and this passage suits it.

Anonymous said...


(i have felt this way. i want to feel this way again. sometimes i wonder if he ever feels this way about me....)