“He saw (her) for the first time that morning. They exchanged glances, trying to recognize the emotions of the day before. For a moment each seemed unreal to the other—then the slow warm hum of love began again.”—F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender is the Night
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In quiet peace of morning’s way, they exchanged glances across in room. Nothing said, no need or pressure to break the silence. In silence, together, they lived peace.
Sky outside was gray and morose in morning mist that never formed to rain but held, heavy and dampening until in time and heat of rising sun, it finally burned away.
Then, mist remained, concealing vision from all but that most near; and in their closeness, they smiled—seeing and enjoying one another’s sights.
She read from her book, and he from his, way of their Saturday-begin. Coffees in hand or at rest on end tables beside, minds and bodies woke to warmth and stimulant.
Mind and body stirred, caffeine-speeding of heart, spirits followed.
He tried to read, but interest faltered, drawn to her nearness and aura’s exude.
As mist shadowed, she illumed. Against sky’s cool, her aura warmed: room a microcosm of her make.
He read from the page a leading line that shaped his after-see:
“There were all the potentialities for romantic love in that lovely body and in the delicate mouth, sometimes tight, sometimes expectantly half open to the world. (She) had been a beauty as a young girl and she would be a beauty later when her skin stretched tight over her high cheek-bones—the essential structure was there. She had been white-Saxon-blonde but she was more beautiful now that her hair had darkened than when it had been like a cloud and more beautiful than she.”[i]
She was there, exact as story told: lovely body, delicate mouth—half opened then and covered with finger’s curl light pressed to their delicate, soft pressured as she mused—the high of her cheeks, faint of freckles that like would deepen and enliven in awake under summer’s sun; white-Saxon-blonde, darkened with age, enriched in the tone, like wine and wisdom given time.
He loved the way of its fall right then, dark of her roots and highlight brighten in fall from life and seasons in the sun.
She felt his eyes. From page, her own rose to meet and find; face blushing in the meet.
She flittered sudden in attentions, struck in a restless and mindless self-aware. She laid her book upon her lap, leant and searched for coffee on table beside. She took it in hand, raised to drink, then lowered before she did—mindless, but aware, flurry of sensed non-sense.
He felt the same but hid it better, breathing slow and deep in balance of the race.
He read her restless, flitter and shifts, self-forgetting self-aware that happens in the blind; the unsettle wanting settled, unable to alone.
He remembered the night, the way she eased; warm wind and rush of breath across his shoulder and his neck, her body beneath—close and holding—as she exhaled, escape of the stir and come of the ease; her gentleness in after, gold thread in green eyes wide-pupiled in the night.
She saw him changed. He saw her too, nipples’ show through loose of cotton, change of shirt in draw and falling from her ends.
He moved for her, book from her lap to end table where her coffee remained. Hook draw of her legs, she spread in her rest, body curling, low back into cushion of chair; raising of loose and cover of shirt, he kissed her to her heat—tongue gentle for her feel—then drifted slow and heating to sides, high open of inner thigh and seam of hip’s crease, touch well where kiss began.
Kiss’ return, touch’s remain, feeling and her body’s respond upon; mindless of aware, senseless in sense, stir and awake but flitter stilled to single focused move; the tone of his voice, sounding into, that lit her in shiver through.
He rose from the kiss, met her in eyes, each’s hands to head of other’s.
Gentle of press, give and the take; energy exchanged, never destroyed, same in sharings of the spirit; heat of her breath, soft to his face, as her low back curled, deeper pressing into cushion; wide of her eyes, nod of expression, her delicate of mouth—smiling and half open in expectation’s meet; her flutter of breath, his breathe of the same, stronger cradle of their hands and heads brought close as in silence and togetherness they loved until restless released and peace restored; bodies, room, and spirits glowed in remain and ambiance of love’s aura.
Outside, suspend of mist erased. Sun restored brilliant gold and splendor of the heart as together they adored.
[i] F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender is the Night