Off to a good start on Dair's Window. I have over 2000 words for the opening and 1700 in a bit just after Adam learns he's been disowned by his family. Here's the first push through on it...rough but still...
------
Dair held me as I wept. No. No...I cried as a baby cries. Knowing something is wrong and not able to understand and giving in fully to his emotions in a way that is completely out of his control. My body shook with sobs and I let him keep his arms around me. I let him see me weak and broken. And still he held me. My losses and pains and desolation poured onto his shirt and molded it to him. My breath grew harsh and difficult to grasp. My head began to scream from pain and my heart throbbed as if I had run a hundred miles. And when I finally took back control, still he held me. Still he caressed my back, with nothing more than tenderness. Still he leaned his head against mine to give me support.
When finally I pulled away, I was no longer beautiful, but flush and swollen and scoured by my loss, but still he held my face and looked at me with kindness. And he said nothing.
He guided me to my feet and led me into the bathroom. Into the shower I had rebuilt. A hundred colors of clear and opaque tiles supported by soft gray grout. Glass doors folding open to let us enter. He undressed me there. Slowly, like one does a child. And I let him. His own shirt and pants, he shrugged them off and let them stay on the floor of the shower. His briefs he did not remove, nor mine, his quiet way of letting me know that was not the intention of this moment. He turned on the hot with a bit of cold mingled in and held me, face to face, letting the water pound on my neck and shoulders and the steam fill my soul with life and wonder. Nothing...nothing...nothing had ever felt so perfect.
He dried me as I dried him, both slow and gentle, but as I began to dress he stopped me and gave to me a pair of his jeans. His waist was a bit larger than mine, and the jeans would bunch around his ankles, but on me they looked casual and had only the slightest break at the hem. He gave me his favorite shirt, black and warm and just the right size for me, so long as I wore nothing under it. He gave me socks and, once I was dressed, put on me his parka.
Then he dressed himself in my work pants, undershirt, pullover sweater and camo-jacket. They fit him tight...but to my surprise, they also fit him well. Then we walked through the brisk evening air, hand in hand, stopping to watch the melting snow fill the stream that followed the winding road. The moon danced from cloud to cloud and stars cast adoring winks at us as we passed the road leading to the new housing. Across the main drag and up the drive to Marion’s lodge, then inside and past those dining in the restaurant or lounging by the fire straight into her office.
Marion was at her desk, writing. She looked up at seeing us and a soft frown crossed her face.
Dair brushed his fingers against mine and asked, “May I share this?”
I gave him a slight shrug.
He turned to Marion and said, “Adam received a letter. From a place he used to call home.”
She leaned back and saw my pants on him and his shirt on me and how he would look at her, unmoving, and how I could not focus my eyes on anything for more than a second, and she rose and came to me and straightened my collar and buttoned one more button on the shirt and smoothed my eyebrows and chuckled and said, “Y’know, if Gareth were here, I’d be able to say something silly like, Here’s my three sons.”
I looked at her, then, and her eyes were dancing. She held me close, like a mother should hold her child, and I hugged her and felt Dair’s hand caress the back of my neck and for the first time in my life I knew peace.
------
Dair held me as I wept. No. No...I cried as a baby cries. Knowing something is wrong and not able to understand and giving in fully to his emotions in a way that is completely out of his control. My body shook with sobs and I let him keep his arms around me. I let him see me weak and broken. And still he held me. My losses and pains and desolation poured onto his shirt and molded it to him. My breath grew harsh and difficult to grasp. My head began to scream from pain and my heart throbbed as if I had run a hundred miles. And when I finally took back control, still he held me. Still he caressed my back, with nothing more than tenderness. Still he leaned his head against mine to give me support.
When finally I pulled away, I was no longer beautiful, but flush and swollen and scoured by my loss, but still he held my face and looked at me with kindness. And he said nothing.
He guided me to my feet and led me into the bathroom. Into the shower I had rebuilt. A hundred colors of clear and opaque tiles supported by soft gray grout. Glass doors folding open to let us enter. He undressed me there. Slowly, like one does a child. And I let him. His own shirt and pants, he shrugged them off and let them stay on the floor of the shower. His briefs he did not remove, nor mine, his quiet way of letting me know that was not the intention of this moment. He turned on the hot with a bit of cold mingled in and held me, face to face, letting the water pound on my neck and shoulders and the steam fill my soul with life and wonder. Nothing...nothing...nothing had ever felt so perfect.
He dried me as I dried him, both slow and gentle, but as I began to dress he stopped me and gave to me a pair of his jeans. His waist was a bit larger than mine, and the jeans would bunch around his ankles, but on me they looked casual and had only the slightest break at the hem. He gave me his favorite shirt, black and warm and just the right size for me, so long as I wore nothing under it. He gave me socks and, once I was dressed, put on me his parka.
Then he dressed himself in my work pants, undershirt, pullover sweater and camo-jacket. They fit him tight...but to my surprise, they also fit him well. Then we walked through the brisk evening air, hand in hand, stopping to watch the melting snow fill the stream that followed the winding road. The moon danced from cloud to cloud and stars cast adoring winks at us as we passed the road leading to the new housing. Across the main drag and up the drive to Marion’s lodge, then inside and past those dining in the restaurant or lounging by the fire straight into her office.
Marion was at her desk, writing. She looked up at seeing us and a soft frown crossed her face.
Dair brushed his fingers against mine and asked, “May I share this?”
I gave him a slight shrug.
He turned to Marion and said, “Adam received a letter. From a place he used to call home.”
She leaned back and saw my pants on him and his shirt on me and how he would look at her, unmoving, and how I could not focus my eyes on anything for more than a second, and she rose and came to me and straightened my collar and buttoned one more button on the shirt and smoothed my eyebrows and chuckled and said, “Y’know, if Gareth were here, I’d be able to say something silly like, Here’s my three sons.”
I looked at her, then, and her eyes were dancing. She held me close, like a mother should hold her child, and I hugged her and felt Dair’s hand caress the back of my neck and for the first time in my life I knew peace.
No comments:
Post a Comment