“Guess who!”
A joyful and vibrant whisper trying to hide its natural voluptuousness
ran in my ear like water dripping off an icicle in the spring meltdown. I
didn’t want to guess who. I was almost afraid of the answer. And yet, the clues
couldn’t have been clearer to my senses to interpret the right answer for this
pop-quiz.
“It can’t be who I
think it is.”
He pressed his body against mine, squeezed his hands on my
eyes and I felt his lips brushing the edge of my ear.
“What if it is?”
“Then, let me savour the uncertainty a little longer.”
Ridiculously long and sensual fingers pressed my eyes shot,
capturing me into the most blissful ignorance, deeply sensual voice flowing in
my ear – I could almost see the treacherous smile snaking itself on the corner
of his lips – the warmth of his breath tickling my cheek and neck, the way his
upper body instantly pressed against mine, and it seemed that the chair on
which I was sitting offered almost no barrier against his ardour. I imagined
myself, had I been standing, and an overwhelming sensation of glorious carnal
delight took me over.
In the concrete of the reality, I contented myself of
flushing red. I imagined a nice vibrant shade of it, like the silky tone of the
rouge worn by the actress in the latest Revlon add, glowing with even more
intensity under the spotlights.
“Good morning Tom.”
He chuckled, released me, and smacked a wet kiss on my
cheek, like a little boy would, but I found myself still being unable to open
my eyes, not just yet. I wanted to taste
the darkness in which he had plunged me, so as to better delight myself of the
light he would blind me with as soon as he would be seated in front of me, at
the small table of the even smaller café
in which he found me.
I swallowed and opened my eyes. I prayed I would have the
strength to look him in the eyes without either getting a huge insanely absurd
comment gush out of my mouth, or, faint on the floor, or drop my tea on my
laptop, or do anything embarrassing of the sort. My heart was already pounding
so hard I thought I wouldn’t be able to hear him.
The soft morning light that seemed to have such horrendous
difficulties entering the window of the small pub ̶
because in fact, as much as I wanted to call this a café, it was really one of those antique and authentic English pubs ̶
well, that shy morning light was now completely blinding me; it shone
down upon him and gave him a sort of magic impossible to deny. The fairness of his skin could’ve been
compared to the purest snow and I just loved how his cheekbones seemed soft and
sculpted to perfection. His new hairstyle, an intricate mix of gold and amber,
highlighted by deep threads of shining rust reminded me of the soft ocean
ripples bathed by the setting sun, and an powerful image of a BBC documentary
imposed itself in my mind, and I couldn’t stop but smile; he was the sea I had
chased after for so many years. His whole being was in fact like the ocean; a
work of art to which regular words failed miserably at giving rightful justice.
He randomly took the menu under his hands and glanced over
the choices. I stopped typing, put my shyness in the desktop’s trash bin and
openly installed myself to admire his new looks.
“Tom, can you stop being outrageously beautiful once in a
while?”
He peeked over the card, raised his right eyebrow, his eyes
seemed to gleam even more, smiled of his typical and undeniably honest “I’m
sorry” and returned his attention to study the menu’s extravagant choices.
Would he take an Earl Grey tea or a green one? “And would my good sir consider giving the breakfast special a curious
attention, or content himself with scones and a fruit salad?” I imagined
the waiter’s voice in my head, trying to contain himself, upon realizing who his
“Good Sir” was on this fine morning.
But the server liked to give his new arriving clients a
moment to settle down and enjoy the seat and the sight before he would appear
out of the dark corner behind the counter to enquire upon their desire. He
wouldn’t come just yet. I had some time to delight myself, and myself alone, of
his presence.
He was growing a goatee around his mouth a most charming
stylized line on the chin sides. I presumed it was for either the current or some
upcoming project. Matter of fact was the extremely attractive end result it
gave him, icing him with a certain maturity which had drastically powerful
effects on me. I was already aroused by his surprising visit, but his
unspeakable beauty was like a fire heated sword straight through my heart.
“You look stylish, with that.” I traced his beard around my
lips.
He smiled and put the menu down.
Cue for the server to come inquire about the Good Sir’s desires upon this most charming
morning.
I guessed half right. Fruits and tea. I renewed mine.
“I am playing William Shakespeare’s Henry the Fifth for a
BBC production. You’d love the set! It’s a shame you have this other contract
at the moment, it’s really all that you love! Knights, armors, mud, rain,
battles.”
I smiled over my tea. I wouldn’t been able to keep a
straight face, had I seen this man in armour, muddy and covered in fake blood,
riding on a white horse, out of a mature version of a Disney fairy tale.
“How did you find me?”
The question sprung out of me, almost as if his presence
hurt me more than it delighted me. I regretted it before I could look up into
his intensely blue eyes again. I felt terrible for having asked that and I’m
sure my cheeks flushed into yet another exotically vivid shade of red.
Actors are not supposed to chase their fans, even less their
fan-girls and even less the ones who have admittedly a serious fondness of
them. I was grateful for that side distraction we had a few months before and I
cherished the memories every minute of every day and night ever since, but I
had grown into that idealistic dream where I was no more than a casual
recreation on his busy agenda page filled with autograph schedules, countless
interviews and whatever filled the rest of his perfectly stop-clock counted
time, when he was not de facto on
stage shooting.
He took a smart phone out of his trousers’ pocket and
pressed a few keys.
“You changed your Facebook status about 47 minutes ago,
using the location application. It wasn’t too hard after that.”
Triumphant smile. Triumphant bite into a kiwi quarter with a
long and explicit chew on it. I nearly choked on my tea again. Like some months
ago. Maybe I should quit tea all in all.
I tried to think. But as he was such a distracting
enchantment! Any other man could have been sitting there, in the same clothes
he was wearing, doing the same thing as he was doing, and yet, any other man
wouldn’t have that incredibly unbearable intense power over me.
“Why do you keep running away, though?” His question stroke
me like a sniper’s bullet – hitting the bull’s eye of my heart.
“Because loving you is a burden far too glorious for my
mortal soul.”
Because it is easier to love a memory, an abstract, a public
figure shown in abundance on social platforms.
He smiled, chuckled and putting a hand on his cheek, sort of
leaned into a more comfortable position, locking his eyes on me. And he looked
at me, with an almost fierce and proud glow in his eyes. I wished he was a
product of my imagination, but the laws of physics had a very annoying tendency
in their ability to prove me wrong. The outside morning sun was using every
trick in the book to put him into even more value. His deep blue sea jacket was
like a piece of science fiction sent back in time in the background of the café who was definitely the remains of
two centuries ago; a real authentic English pub which had its upstairs floor
converted to bathrooms, but which really were rooms to be rented a mere two
hundred years ago, a few pennies per bed, per night. The stone walls which were
put together and held together with the means of “back then”, the old wooden
beams solidly securing the upper floors above our heads, the random wall
chandeliers, still used in the evenings, most of the furniture too, was old;
only the bar was maybe less than century old new and of course the kitchen
which was renewed upon the re-opening of the pub.
Tom, on the other hand, was an artifact from the very distant
future thrown back in time; so modern, so well cut, so vibrant in the old dusty
ambiance of the place. He seemed altogether misfit and yet as if part of the
landscape.
I didn’t realize he had finished his fruit salad and my tea
was getting cold but the fascination brought by the conclusion that his
silences were as efficient as spoken words distracted me. I couldn’t tell if he spoke of something else
after that last sentence which was still wildly running over and over in my
mind.
My eyes were still captivated by the softness of his neck
and how the V cut of his – I presumed – white T-Shirt was just enough to
enflame imaginations, and how odd it was for a man to inspire what I thought
only women could inspire to men.
“You care for stroll on the English country side? I have a
horse at our disposition for the day.”
I nearly dropped my cup on the floor, as all of a sudden, my
fingers holding it, seemed to have lost their ability to do such a simple task
as to squeeze the handle hard and long enough to give me the required seconds
to put it gently back in the saucer.
“Why, of all the days of the year where you could have found
me, have you picked that one day where I am wearing a skirt? And on top of it,
to invite me for a horse ride!”
He rose his shoulders in that adorable “I don’t know” motion
which melted me on the spot.
“I have a fear of heights. And horses are pretty high.”
“I’ll be sitting right behind you.”
So there was no way out of this, wasn’t there.
“It is highly enjoyable, I can assure you! You will love
it!”
Oh that terribly convincing smile of his!
He knew I was sold for when he assertively put his arm around my waist and guided me to his parked
rental car and I was walking a little faster than he was.
Naturally, by habit,
I walked toward the right hand side of the car, and only when I got to the door
did I realize it was an English car, with the driver’s seat on this side.
“I wasn’t aware you
got your driving license in these last three months.” He joked as he was
putting away my laptop’s bag in the trunk of the car.
I felt like a
complete idiot. Voila. Something randomly stupid had to happen. Why couldn’t I
be just normal in his presence for once?
He came from the
opposite side, going around the car to meet me in the front. I wanted to look
at him but all I could manage was to look at that insanely deep V cut; the
delicate and yet masculine neck emerging from it resembled a white swan
emerging from a sun bathed glistening splash of white foam. He was the sea, he
was the merman, he was the tempest wrecking my ship in the storm of the
feelings he was brewing above me.
“This is the power over me / I'm rendered
helpless / You've got me on my knees / You have the power over me / Nothing is
certain / I wait for recovery” (1)
I snuck as best as I
could between his impressive body and the car’s nose to slide with as much
agility as I could manage to get to the door’s handle.
He crossed his arms
on the car’s rooftop and smiled at me.
“You sure are more
tensed than I am!”
Tom 1 – Me 0.
I burst into
laughter.
He opened his door
and I tried to open mine.
Even his driving was
charming! So focused and cautious, the little habits kicked in like breathing;
seatbelts: his, mine, the radio, pulling out of the parking area, getting on
the road, slowly driving out of the village, accelerating on the … what was
considered a high way I presumed between two villages, slowing down before the
expected curves where he turned to get to his mysterious location.
I remained in
silence, not knowing how to even start a conversation, and when I nearly would
have found a topic, I rather stood in that comfortable silence in which we
were. I remembered that night on the roof under the stars; silence was the best
thing we said to each other. Just being near him, in his arms, in his presence,
was enough; words were unnecessary weights which ruined the lightness of the
moment.
I smiled.
“So… euhm… where is Asgard?” I asked,
that night. And it all began there and then.
I wondered if things
would have happened differently hadn’t I lost that SD card, or hadn’t I
accepted his invitation, or hadn’t I asked that question or …
The English country
side gently past us by, unfolding into always the same bigger picture and yet
constantly changing details; infinite green grass valleys sprinkled with a few
cows or herds of drowsy sheeps here and there, some patches of wild flowers,
mostly white daisies, a few short old wooden fences keeping limits, I thought,
more for the visual entertainment rather than real utility purpose.
“Tom…” I started and
I lost my thought.
The way the sun was playing
in the remains of the morning dew on the grass was as if we were driving
through a living emerald.
“Have you ever…”I
continued, turning to face him.
He answered my
unfinished question, but not with spoken words.
His lips entered into the most delicious collision against
mine and time stopped. We were 3 months ago on a rooftop under the stars; we
were in a car on the English county side 3 months later ̶ time
had lost its powerful meaning. What had a meaningful significance was the way
his beard tickled me, what had substantial importance was the trembling of my
soul as his hand slid on the side of my chin to pull me closer as he took his
first mouthful of the day. And I
realized how much more I had missed him than what I was ready to admit it to myself
and I smiled through his avidly ferocious kissing. His art of skilfully
shutting me up remained as efficient and as delightfully entertaining – maybe
even more so today with its unquestionable reality, versus the slowly fading
memories and dreams that still haunted me, some nights, sharper than others.
I vaguely heard the
cliquey sound of the seatbelt’s release, both his and mine, at a small
interval, and I was transported with unspeakable joy when he didn’t mind
throwing himself over at me. His hand in the same exact spot as before; one
finger on each side of my ear, the pinkie sliding down my neck, the thumb rubbing my skin softly as his
tongue was lost in a senselessly passionate waltz with mine.
He pulled me closer.
I dared touch his cheek and the contact of his skin under my hand was like a
blind man seeing the light. I was floating in a heavenly bliss of delight and
couldn’t care less how breathless I was becoming.
“I missed you.” I managed to whisper to his V, pulling
back for a moment.
“I have guessed that.” He replied, sprinkling his
words with a storm of shallow kisses.
A shiver ran through my whole body as he got back to
business as usual for the following most delicious five minutes of my last …
let’s say a little over 90 days.
His way of serving himself, while guilefully stopping
my thinking process, was among those pesky and yet adorably annoying things he
had an expertise at doing and which I missed so much! I felt as if I was a kid
back in summer camp with my best friend, up to no good, playing tricks and
pranks. I loved how strong and deep his desire had obviously grown since the
last time, or was it mine? I couldn’t wait to finish one kiss to start the next
one… or was it him? I had missed the taste of his tongue, the smoothness of his
lips… the motion of his lascivious fury.
Part 2 –
We passed through a last little village before the
seemingly endless road imposed it’s sensual soft curve in front of us.
“Are you taking me all the way up to Scotland?” I teased.
“Maybe.” He had a smug smile.
I tried to focus my attention on the road, but my
heart was imitating a charging cavalry rushing down an appreciably inclined
hill at full speed, and Tom was a man full of surprises. Just as I was trying
to remember in which part of England we were by now, he simply took a turn
left, as if he had done this path a thousand times, and soon enough, he pulled
off on the side of a rather imposing stable’s red brick wall.
An adorable old man, rather short and strong, came
out, holding an imposing tall and strong chocolate brown horse by the bridle.
“Heaven have mercy! You want me to … get on that
thing’s back? Are you serious?”
I was more petrified with fear than jumping thrilled with
excitement.
He leaned over, smacked a quick kiss on my cheek and a
dropped a reassuring whisper in my ear.
“I’ll be right behind you!”
And with that said every possible fear was simply and
absolutely dissolved, evaporated into thin air, just as the very last remains
of the early morning’s mist, killed by the powerful golden arrows the sun
torpedoed in the heart of the weakening bunch of clouds.
The horse, a healthy stallion going by the oddly
circumstantial name of Henry, looked me straight in the eye as I was facing him
by the left side, trying to make a good first impression. Inside of me, I was
trembling with apprehension, but on the outside, I tried my best to approach a
steady reassuring hand to his nose, which I left hovering above his nostrils a
good moment so he could sniff me and make my acquaintance, giving him the right
to either accept me or refuse me.
I nearly jumped when he pushed his nose into my palm
and a little squeal of surprise escaped me.
“Do all blokes impress you this dramatically?” Tom
asked teasing, observing me, holding the bridle with an assured hand, the other
one steadily caressing the horse’s neck.
I couldn’t stop the laughter which burst out of my
lips faster than a formula one car starting up and I grimaced back at him.
“So… how do you expect me to … get on his back?” I
asked, half consciously putting all my weight on my feet, hoping that roots
would miraculously grow to keep attached to the ground.
Tom turned around the horse, walked slowly, taking all
his time, ambushing me from behind, and I should have guessed it, firmly
gripped my sides with both hands.
“You will slide your left foot into the stirrup and I
will raise you with a little push; you will grip firmly the pommel, slide your
right leg around the saddle, sit down, and relax. You will then free the
stirrup so I can get up, I will slide my arm around you, take reins and give a
little kick into Henry’s side. He will most likely make some noise and start
walking.”
Sounded so easy!
“Ready?”
So joyful and optimistic!
I was a little less beaming with enthusiasm than he
was.
He guided me, once again, step by step. I remembered
that night, the staircase, his hand on my eyes, his voice guiding me – step by
step.
“Left foot in the stirrup.”
Up until there, I managed, even if my skirt slid back
greatly on my leg, revealing my pale skin.
“I hope you are enjoying yourself.” I whispered,
trying to focus on the pommel.
“Very much so, indeed.” He replied, more amused than
serious.
He pushed me up, as he said he would, but for a split
second, a random thought distracted me and the
theoretically easy maneuver became a charming fiasco as I
fell straight back into his arms, making him
step back from the surprise and I couldn’t stop
smiling as he squeezed me strong against him.
“We should do horse riding more often. I love how
passionately you fall into my arms."
I giggled and he gently set me back into position for
a second try. I felt like an animated doll in his hands and sighed with a smile,
remembering how I had naturally trusted him the first time. The second time
wasn’t quite the success I had hoped for, but, but a famous proverb was on my
side and third time became the charm! To which I shouted out loud my
satisfaction of being finally successful.
Obviously, for Tom, getting up and settled into
position was as blissfully easy as quoting Shakespeare. And like he said,
giving a gentle kick into Henry’s side, our adventure of the day really began.
I closed my eyes to better appreciate the stallion’s
confident steps as he lead us out of the farm’s premises into what had the secret flowery scent of frizzy and
mostly titillating adventurous times ahead of us. Tom had quickly secured his
arm around my waist, as he had promised, holding the bridle with assurance, guiding
the imposing horse on a most charming dirt path that officially started a good
mile in the farm’s backyard, snaking itself in the green forest, curving around
clearings, going into darker agglomerations of tall darker shaded green giants.
It’s most interesting how when you have your eyes
closed, everything becomes hyper sensitively acute around you. The sound of
Henry’s steady pace, the tapping sound of his shoes against the dirt road, his
horse smell clashing against Tom’s cologne made me smile. Sometimes, as the
horse would make a comment or move his neck and I would tense up, but the man
behind me pressed himself against me, and I was sent back into a most
comforting cocoon of trust and dream like state. Random birds were randomly
chirping in the random distance, the sun was playing the same kind of hide and
seek game through the foliage, tickling my face when it pierced a bit stronger
between scarce leaves, creating strong luminous fireworks behind my closed
eyes. I could imagine a Disney like scenery where the sunrays pierced down to
gently caress the shyly emerging wild flowers’ open petals like open arms,
swooshing through leaves, creating a rich spectrum of all sorts of shades of
greens, from the deepest thickest bottom of a pond green to the lightest almost
see-through golden tone. And as I took in deep slow breaths, all the various
scents of nature mixed in the most delicious perfume which changed, it seemed,
at the pace of our noble steed. With closed eyes, every delicate scent that
brushed me was a like playing fairy twinkling its tiny wings, brushing my
cheeks, flying away, twirling and dancing in the late summer’s air.
I smiled at the shear thought of where I was, with who
I was, and what I was doing. It seemed a dream, and yet, my senses were too
sharply excited at every passing second to be able to deny the unquestionable
reality of it all. I felt his arm move up and down at each breath I took,
sometimes he would squeeze me against himself – I thought – for the simple and delicate
pleasure of feeling me, or to remind me that this was neither an illusion nor a
daydream. Sometimes, he would slow down the horse’s pace to bring my attention
on a scenery’s specific detail, knowing I would appreciate the finer detail of
the sunlight against the green leaves and how two leaves, seen from under,
would be of two different shades, lit differently from above, and how at their
united center a third shade would exist, gently moved by the late summer breeze.
Other times, I would be lost in wonder, trying to
imagine the scenery in my mind, trying to paint the odd and yet picture perfect
reality; a tall and strong chocolate brown stallion walking at a casual pace on
a small dirt trail in the midst of an English forest, with tall leafy trees on
all sides, wild flowers sprouting randomly in the painted landscape, discreet
birds, some butterflies perhaps, fluttering here and there. On the horse’s
back, a man in his very early thirties, with beauty worth of a prince, wavy
hair of an undefinable shade between a golden blond and deep tones of amber,
eyes of a soft deep blue under the shades, which would illuminate into a sky
blue when lit up by a random sun ray. He was wearing a deep blue sea jacket and
black suede trousers, contrasting with the surrounding environment and even
more so seeming miss-fitting the activity he was enjoying. Seated before him
and held safely, and strongly against him, the young woman of a merely a few
years younger, was equally a fashion misfit in this natural activity with her
almost see-through white sleeved shirt covering a pale peach top completed with
an equally soft peachy pink ruffled skirt, which in this odd position was pulled
up, revealing her pale thighs.
“Hold on tight, we will accelerate a little.” He
warned me just as we arrived at a clearing’s edge, a little atop a hill, softly
reaping me from my half dream.
My heart suddenly accelerated into an untamed race. I
felt Tom’s leg giving that signal kick into Henry’s side and the horse hastened
and unleashed his own tamed desire, letting his vigour be known and appreciated,
bursting into a passionate speedy canter which soon became an honest galloping.
I felt Tom’s grip around me tightened, and I couldn’t have been happier for it.
I felt his body leaning over me, just slightly, his chest practically fusing
with my back, his legs pressing against mine, the bridle shortly wrapped around
his hand.
Henry seemed to enjoy the speed as much as Tom did,
and I thought to myself that this sure beated any amusement park in terms of
thrilling sensations and excitement! I wanted to close my eyes, and yet I
couldn’t bring myself to do so, eager to appreciate how fast the landscape
unravelled under my eyes, how the grass was practically reduced to blurred
horizontal lines, how the wind was strong against my chest and in my hair –
which I hoped would hold in place until the race finished.
As my heart was palpitating with unreasonable strength,
I realized the full blown arousing side effect of this whole thing. There was
something absolutely raw and sensual, untamed and primitive in this improvised
race and I wondered if Tom had planned it consciously or if it was the
randomness of the moment’s inspiration.
I was still on that indescribable
high when the stallion slowed down and I could make out Tom’s voice in my ear.
“Fun, wasn’t it?”
It was the horse who had furnished most of the effort
and it was me who was panting, still under the power of what I felt, and still
was trying to tame inside of me. I swallowed and tried to gather my thoughts.
“Sure beats amusement parks!”
The landscape in which we stopped seemed as if ripped
out of a children’s illustrated fairy tale book; if the woods would have been a
giant hand, we would have landed on the edge of the palm, I imagined we came
from an unseen place from the thumb, and rode a trail up to the hill top which
was constituted by the Thenar’s eminence so to speak; in front of us, an
appreciable clearing divided in its center by a most charming little stream, on
this side, gifted by the presence of a venerable willow tree gently brushing
the clear water’s ripples by its sorrowful branches, on the other side, the
forest continued, as if the index, middle and ring fingers were jointed in a
graceful figure, leaving to sight a small breach before the line of the pinky
would dive into another section of thick dark woods.
Tom jumped off the horse’s back with as much ease as
he got up and securing both hands on my waist, helped me down. I slightly lost
my balance and landed directly in his arms – yet again.
“I am seriously considering taking you out on horse
rides more often. You have this charming habit which is becoming most addictive!”
I smiled and rolled my arms around his neck as I
leaned forward to kiss him. My turn to. I was burning from the ride and I
couldn’t possibly think of restraining my burning momentum. I wanted him so
much, so badly, so intensely, so senselessly, so strongly, so eagerly, so ardently,
so fiercely, so thirstily …
I pulled back.
He smiled looking me in the eyes.
“That was agreeable, why did you stop?”
“I ran out of synonyms to describe how badly I want
you.”
“Let me help out.”
His adjectives were as sharply intense as the fiery
tickling sensation inside of me; vigorous, long, deep, detailed, demanding.
I could feel his chest raising and lowering against
mine. If my hands were casually thrown around his shoulders, his arms were a
bit more possessive around my waist and back, pulling me closer to him,
squishing my chest against his, locking me into a most delightful cage of
craving passion, of which I wouldn’t have wished to escape.
I had forgotten how much I loved and most essentially
how I missed kissing him. There was just something sublimely natural about him.
I couldn’t define it precisely, nor could I deny it. It was just one of those
statements of life like when you love a fruit, or a dish or a color; you love
it, end of story. I loved kissing him. And he didn’t quite do anything to
inspire me the opposite train of thoughts.
“Do you still hate me?” He whispered in my ear after a
very long moment and it seemed as if someone had wide opened the blinds of a dark
chamber, unleashing the blinding and burning power of morning’s sunlight.
I blinked and rested my head on his shoulder as I
burst into laughter. So, he did remember that.
“Yes. Very much so, yes.” I replied in an equally low
whisper.
Tom was lying on his side, a hand on his cheek, his
elbow in a thick and soft patch of fresh grass, twirling random blades with his
free hand. He had taken off his jacket
and I refrained myself from giving him that cheesy pick up line “Did it hurt much when you fell from heaven?”,
and yet, behind his composed smile, I could see that twinkle in his eyes as he
was clearly enjoying every moment of my internal struggle to remain calm in his
presence.
It was odd, and yet so natural, this silence composed
of smiles, of glances and of random little grimaces as we both tried to start a
conversation and yet not quite finding the proper words. Almost as oddly, I
realized that in fact, words were not as much needed to express whatever we
wanted to say to each other.
A good few ten or twenty meters behind him a rather
thick pool of daisies caught my attention and by a random strike of inspiration
– to Tom’s open surprise and unhidden deception – I sprang up and ran to
collect a few.
“Isn’t it normally up to the gentleman to gather
flowers for his lady?” He asked bemused when I came back with a huge stack in
my hands.
I gave him a single one.
“Nope. Not in our modern era.”
He smiled and I sat down to craft him a crown.
He looked at me with curiosity, trying to guess where
I was going, but soon his smile widened and a chuckle escaped him as he lay back
on his back, playing with his daisy.
By the time I was done, he had his fingers crossed
behind his neck; eyes closed and seemed to enjoy a little nap. The scenery itself
– had I had a camera on me – would have been worthy of a classic romantic
painter’s vision on an outing. The man, lying on the tender green grass, enjoying
the sun’s warmth, the random chirping of birds, the faint whispers of the wind
the trees around the clearing; the girl sitting near him, silently working on
her craft, making a crown one flower at a time, for the man who had wan her
heart in the most charmingly unexpected possible way.
I grinned with malice. I could have just called out his
name, to get his attention, or bend over and kiss him on the cheek, maybe on
the lips to play Sleeping Beauty, but
since he was so freely offering himself to me, why not raise the fun bar just a
little higher?
Trying my best not to unravel my evil plan, I snuck up
on his crouch before he would open his eyes. He got half up, resting his weight
on his elbows and grinned at me.
“You lied. The daisy’s last petal confirmed it. You
love me.”
“I guess daisies can’t lie, can’t they?”
He silently shook his head to a no.
“So then, I have no other choice but to…” I started, and
was as soon caught off guard as he suddenly raised himself to a more appropriate
sitting position and locked his arms in my back.
“… But to crown you my king.” I finished.
The white of the daisy crown in the flamboyant rusty
gold of his hair gave him an even more so unbearable beauty and I sighed,
regretting the absence of my trusty camera to capture the perfect of the moment.
Maybe it was my imagination playing tricks on me, making me believe he could
read my mind, ore more realistically, he knew me all too well, for he quickly
snuck out a mobile phone from his trousers’ pocket and offered it to me.
