And then the day comes when we take that trip. We go to the Smoky Mountains or maybe to San Francisco or just to the front porch of our apartment where I put my arms around your neck and you rest your hands at my waist and our lips touch but just barely. We go backpacking. We hike the Appalachian Trail. We go city-walking somewhere in Europe and talk about the transmuting reactions going on deep within the interior of the Sun and the stars, our long-hid love confessed, our midnight startings a scientific authority.
We find a hotel room in New York that's small and cramped but for us it is perfect and we fuck until that same Sun goes down and the stars come up, blue and shining in our twilight, and then we go out for dinner, to a nice place with a chandelier in the lobby and candles in the bathroom that smell of pecans and cinnamon. I wear a green dress and you wear the blue tie I gave you last Christmas. We look good. We smile at people we do not know and imagine they are jealous. I last wore this tie in Salt Lake, you say.
We go to a cafe, a trendy place where we buy vanilla-flavored coffee and walk the aisles looking for books with interesting pictures of a 19th century universe. We smile at each other as we talk to strangers under an awning that shields us from a light summer rain.
Someone asks, How do you like this place? I nod yes and talk about the age-long outpourings of heat and light by the Sun, one odd fact among many I have scribbled in the palm of my hand.
Later we drink whiskey in view of a full moon, the craters and mountains standing in bold relief. You lift my dress. I find your mouth, so plainly visible, so far-surpassing my very breath. Your hand moves to my neck. The universe slows, our Sun and stars a sweet thought silent.
Your hand slides under my panties, your mouth near my ear. When I am gone, dream me some happiness, you whisper. A fragment of John Donne; a secret love affair now fragmented in my mind.
M C R
This work is copyrighted by the author, Mazie Louise Montgomery.