“Intimacy is the capacity to be rather weird with someone—and finding that that’s ok with them.”—Alain de Botton
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Sky was overcast and with the gray and mute of cloud, sounds of the world seemed same. Cicadas hid their sounds. Crickets sang low, soft-meek in background of morning as birds again restored in leading voice of sky.
Indoors, in the intimate of private and away and apart from world of race and demands or offensive indifference to vulnerability and expressions of human spirit; they shared together what modern rejected: strangenesses of self—ones hidden not made blatant and demanded acceptance by society and masses for they were personal and true, and therefore vulnerable, unlike the strangenesses adopted by lost seeking for identity and belonging in collective and uniformed oddnesss—quiet, slow, peace, spirit.
Even in gray, enough light shone from sky to illume room for seeing and moving about. Only lamps, and candles for ambiance, lit in the room in close-shine over places of rest where Anna and he read, wrote, and allowed their minds to wander as they would together, later in day, across farm and cultivated wild.
She wore no shirt and when she moved, her breasts swung gentle in step and stride. She caught his eyes and saw smile, enjoying both their sight; and the quiet way he rose and told, intimate affirm, of his endearment and affections.
She read of romances. He wrote the same, some of his were the words she read; and it was fruit for the mind and dream and spirit where, alone, anything could be.
He was a meek and proper, as was she, but in the stories there wrote a wildness because maybe Freud was right on repression and souls and spirits need medium to let through lusts and wants and primal instincts that, cultivated and controlled, still reside within the human heart.
He wrote them away—sometimes beautiful, sometimes strange—and in their intimacy, she read and accepted all he shared. This way, stories became her own: first in word, then in mind, and last—when written well and made to feel—live of the written longing that, as story, became her own.
She walked naked then in mute-light of the gray. Her tan darkened in the dim, and her fair shone shadow of a blue; but her eyes were rich and deep and illumined still of a light not of the sky.
He wrote dream then, watching her move, bounce and sway and lively in free: breasts and hips and all her rest. Neither were young by the numbers of time but, together, their spirits remained so. In openness, they shared their bodies—imperfections’ reveal further live of the infinite, to know and see and desire still for the spirit and parts of themselves and other they found beautiful still.
He wrote at a table, on plain wood chair, and she desired him then; he too in his open, body and mind, as he wrote story and dream where she was in.
She had a way of writing stories too, of in inspire and dream—going to him—encouraging until lived true where, in the after, he would find the words and write story as it had lived and she wanted always to remember.
Story lived within her then, low pang and a high heart-stir, eyes’ light telling in sign.
She went to him, to his open lap, where she brought herself to rest. Arms behind neck, body balanced in straddle; meek, soft kiss and end of a smile and gaze-stare holding eye-to-eye.
The way they began, and the way they kept, in hold of one another; balancing, supporting, raising and guiding in cover-fall; keep of their gazes, eye to eye, focused on glow, eyes’ glint and gleam from other than sun or sky through build of the way, until near’s reach; eyes close, forehead’s touch, closeness and speed and stronger into until the still and hold and waver-weaken; hold-keeping through the feel until it’s through, then open of eyes and see of the gleam again; intimate and in love with all their strangeness.