?

Log in

Sa, 12. Mär 2005, 22:35
Snow and memory

I spent the evening with friends (JBS and Tu, male acquaintances with whom I enjoy spending time. Neither one of them is interested in relationships. It's quite refreshing). Starbucks is the venue of choice tonight; Tall Caramel Mocha is the drink of the evening (at least for me). The particular Starbucks, we chose for convenience, and it has a few very personal memories associated therewith...

reading, reading, rushing to absorb information and turn the page to read, read, read more so i can know what the fuss is about, why it is that she pressed the book into my hands and ordered me to finish it then and there so we could discuss it. she sits next to me, taking a sadistic pleasure in denying me a sip of her venti toffee nut latte, she knows i love it, she knows if she denies me i'll focus, she denies me. she likes it. the power attracts. she sips, she watches me read, she converses with the barista. hours pass in the world around me, days and years pass in the world inside my head. it's done. i'm all awhirl; action built and built and built and tension grew, and nothing was revealed, then BAMit'shappeningclimaxwhat'sgoingonit'sdoneit'sdonethe story is over in fifteen pages. discuss? says she. not now, says i. coffee comes. i sip.

cold. cold and wet and dreary outside, warm and soothing inside. plush green chair beneath, jazz in the air, scent of coffee and his hair. his hair, with which i am intimately familiar. his hair, soft in my fingers, sexual for me and for him. i shift, shivering, into his lap; i cover us with my sweatshirt, in lieu of a blanket. we nuzzle, warming up...he is soon more than warm, and cuddling turns from sweet to steamy. his hand slips up beneath the obscuring sweatshirt, under my shirt, under the plain white bra, cupping my breast and squeezing. i react with pleasure, and his hand moves down lower. under cover, always under cover of the sweatshirt, he undoes the closure of my jeans and slides his fingers down, down, down to the secret warmths inside. inside my jeans, inside me. slide and flick, agile, deft, soon i am on the brink of explosion. i come, and come, and come, and still he doesn't stop, and it starts to hurt from so much stimulation but the pleasure is still there beneath, so i say nothing...the barista wanders around, starting to clean up for close up, and i'm sure she knows exactly what we're doing, but i don't care and neither does he. finally i can't take it anymore, and it's five minutes till closing, so i ask him to stop, and he stops, and i rezip, and we leave. kiss on the corner, and he's gone.


None of this came up in conversation, of course, as these two companions are quite different from those in the past. Ascetic and intellectual, the topics run the gamut from SATs to movies to theatre. Closing time comes and goes, and we adjourn to a nearby food court, and continue the discussion for another hour. JBS leaves, and with him the Tu, and so I make my way out into the blustery winter notquitewonderland. It's dark, cold, and the snow falls in small, swiftlyflying flakes. I intend to take the bus, or maybe the train...but I start walking and singing, and thinking, and you know, I really don't want to go inside just yet. So I keep on keepin' on. Down the street, on autopilot, as the snow crunches beneath my feet and the wind whistles past my ears. I don't really hear either one yet; I'm still singing. Soon the song ends, and I talk to myself - inside my head and with my voice. I've fallen into my faire accent, and I can use the practice, so I speak quietly to myself about - nothing. Everything and nothing. Things I see, things I recall, things that want addressing, things I hope for. The streets become less populated, and there's an alley there - do I want to go down it, avoiding the traffic of the corner twenty feet ahead? I do. I make a lone set of turned-out tracks between the tiretracks down the alley and up the other side, and at the top I look back. The footsteps curve and straighten out, leave the center so I don't slip and return to climb. I turn and go down the quiet street.

There's nobody here, and now I can hear the crunch of my footsteps quite clearly. Too clearly. I walk toe-ball-heel, and it's quieter, but soon I stop. The delicate branches of the tree before me are encrusted with light snow and lacy ice, illuminated in the old streetlamp's glow. I gaze for a few moments, collecting my thoughts, and move on. Meditative the rest of the way home, I stop again at a silent park and watch a young man play with his dog in the falling snow. I smile, move on, moving slower and slower the nearer and nearer I get to my house. I don't want to go in, though I'm cold and wet with snow. I want the reflective mood to persist. It can't. I go in.