The earth was warm beneath him. His back
formed its deepest pleasure by pressing into the caves of the grass and the dirt.
No matter what innocent twigs cracked to his folly; this unique warmth had him
down for each summer’s breath.
A woman, no taller than a jay feather from
where he was, sat at the crest of the hill, staying within orbit of the large
tree by her. Her leg, heavy, and deeply curved, as if her calves wished to be a
bushy tail rather than a serpent’s body, lay bare to half the thigh, her dress
skirts having swung up with the breeze. The wind blew softly upon her,
teasingly – and had managed to untuff a few locks of hair. They twirled
relentlessly, muttering its sweet nothings.
Summer had turned to Fall this
day – for this tree she sat beside had sent a flock of dry, emaciated, crisp leaves for cremation. She had
taken to crushing them with her hands, grabbing one or a few whole and curling
them slowly into her delicate fingers till left only were pulverised jewels.
The man had stopped watching on
his safe plateau of grass, untainted by Autumn. He too had quite a head of
hair; affectionate curls hugged close to him; brown wisps burrowed in the
crevices of his eyes and the wedge of his ears. He was slender, his grey sweater
lagged behind him in piles of exhausted fabric – and while he stood it hung
uncomfortably low on the sides, dragging him down almost humourously. The cool
sun, filtered by those immense cumuli, dazzled the sweetness of his cheeks and
emphasised the hollow of his eyes. When he blinked, he could taste his lashes
on his skin.
And he fluttered and she
crushed. As she drew a pile of these multi-coloured gems, she wondered if at
first people could ever tell the difference. And so she spread it like paint
across her brow and on her lips. She began to cover her bosom in the healthy
leaves left yet. And she did not stop till she was quite covered.
Dazed, awakened from Half-Sleep
of Nearby Thoughts (to wander in the hill metres away, to awake and find the
clouds), the man slowly brought open his lids. He felt the imprint of the grass as it stained
him, but brought nonetheless his body up from its stance to greet stupor. He began to walk to the girl, at first
without intention and at last with all omniscience (he was by all opinions
turned from her, with her back curved to make her eyes opposite him - but they
both knew what was happening before it happened.)
She looked up from her book (for
she had brought one and there had been one), her lips covered in mosaic flecks
of red, brown, and yellow. As too were
her eyebrows and he thought her marvelous in that moment.
She was in a simple teal dress
and he in his sweater and black jeans, but he bowed so beautifully and she
smiled such a quiet smile - why they just were something more.
Scooping down to his knee, he
cracked a handful of leaves in his own hand and gestured closer. She lowered
her head beneath him, and he admired the fringe of hair exposed upon her neck
as the tendrils fell to front. She felt the trickle like dust upon her neck as
he bathed her in her crown.
His smile pulled back his face -
so narrow was it already - and his eyes crinkled something endearing when she
looked up so silent and knowing. His laugh was not so much a laugh as it more
like a quick hum of exhale a quick – what-a-pleasant-surprise breath and she
understood.
And he took her hand in his own
and put her breast to his and enveloped her pale full lips in his own dainty
and pink and they fell back in the grass and in the dead leaves thinking it
only colourful and delicate and gone. And little did they know that their love
was soon a carcass in the wind
being crushed and licked by the
lips of other lovers.
