Leap
2008 is, thankfully, a leap year. One more precious day in a month that already seems too damn long. Two full days shorter than a regular month, February still stutters and hiccups along, dragging it's sorry ass the entire way.
Weather leaps forward to spring, then jumps back into winter. Rapid changes in climate cause my head to grow foggy. I sniffle, once, twice, then a full sneeze. Stumbling out the door when I should be leaping, I forget that February moves faster than I do. One foot of the porch and down I go. Coffee spills, phone flies into the bushes, tush and arm severely bruised.
Matching February in style and grace, I stagger and struggle through my daily life. Back and forth I go against the bowling bumpers. Should I, shouldn't I? Do I, don't I? Same story, only now in a less forgiving season.
On Saturday, when I couldn't stand the chaotic motion anymore and my bruises started to ache, I leaped. Without stabilizing my footing, without knowing fully where I intended to land, I leaped onto my couch. In the first graceful movement my awkwardness has ever produced, my head rested on his lap. Soft curls that I'd fixated on creating for 20 minutes framed my face. Dark rims of eyeliner and low lights allowed my eyes to appear green, rather than the plain brown they actually are. Elongated eyelashes fluttered. Curled up in his lap, I appeared beautiful in a classically romantic and vulnerable way. Fingertips brushed against my arm, making me instantly glad I choose cashmere for the occasion. Protected, warmed and comforted by the beautiful girl reflected in the glassy, intoxicated haze of his eyes, I leap into terrifying intimacy.
Huge, fat tears gather on the edges of my perfect eyelashes. Joining together, one rolls out of the corner of my eye and over my cheek. It leaves a long trail across the high bones of my face and down to my chin. That first tear takes a lifetime to fall and slide across my face. Each additional tear moves incrementally faster until I'm sobbing. Guilt, anxiety, fear, loss...every negative emotion seeps out of me. Pulling in deep breaths, my diaphragm expands and contracts rapidly. Fingertips circle with the same steady motion across my arm and onto my stomach. These gentle motions dispel my loss of control and restore order. My breathing slows and my tears stop flowing. My stomach muscles rise and fall slower and slower until my body relaxes. Our breathing matches, and his fingers keep the pace my heartbeat should have. 72 beats per minute. Over and over again.
72 beats per minute puts me to sleep. Then it puts him to sleep too. Waking several hours later, in the early morning light, we are still in the same position on the couch. Despite the tears, my eye make up is undisturbed. My soft curls are softer still now. I am still warm and beautiful. Blood pulses through me at the perfectly reasonable rate of 72 beats per minute. Fingertips no longer match it. Everything is the same, but we leap back into ourselves and remove the vulnerability. Fickle just as February, and never saying what we really want for fear of the commitment in spoken words.
Weather leaps forward to spring, then jumps back into winter. Rapid changes in climate cause my head to grow foggy. I sniffle, once, twice, then a full sneeze. Stumbling out the door when I should be leaping, I forget that February moves faster than I do. One foot of the porch and down I go. Coffee spills, phone flies into the bushes, tush and arm severely bruised.
Matching February in style and grace, I stagger and struggle through my daily life. Back and forth I go against the bowling bumpers. Should I, shouldn't I? Do I, don't I? Same story, only now in a less forgiving season.
On Saturday, when I couldn't stand the chaotic motion anymore and my bruises started to ache, I leaped. Without stabilizing my footing, without knowing fully where I intended to land, I leaped onto my couch. In the first graceful movement my awkwardness has ever produced, my head rested on his lap. Soft curls that I'd fixated on creating for 20 minutes framed my face. Dark rims of eyeliner and low lights allowed my eyes to appear green, rather than the plain brown they actually are. Elongated eyelashes fluttered. Curled up in his lap, I appeared beautiful in a classically romantic and vulnerable way. Fingertips brushed against my arm, making me instantly glad I choose cashmere for the occasion. Protected, warmed and comforted by the beautiful girl reflected in the glassy, intoxicated haze of his eyes, I leap into terrifying intimacy.
Huge, fat tears gather on the edges of my perfect eyelashes. Joining together, one rolls out of the corner of my eye and over my cheek. It leaves a long trail across the high bones of my face and down to my chin. That first tear takes a lifetime to fall and slide across my face. Each additional tear moves incrementally faster until I'm sobbing. Guilt, anxiety, fear, loss...every negative emotion seeps out of me. Pulling in deep breaths, my diaphragm expands and contracts rapidly. Fingertips circle with the same steady motion across my arm and onto my stomach. These gentle motions dispel my loss of control and restore order. My breathing slows and my tears stop flowing. My stomach muscles rise and fall slower and slower until my body relaxes. Our breathing matches, and his fingers keep the pace my heartbeat should have. 72 beats per minute. Over and over again.
72 beats per minute puts me to sleep. Then it puts him to sleep too. Waking several hours later, in the early morning light, we are still in the same position on the couch. Despite the tears, my eye make up is undisturbed. My soft curls are softer still now. I am still warm and beautiful. Blood pulses through me at the perfectly reasonable rate of 72 beats per minute. Fingertips no longer match it. Everything is the same, but we leap back into ourselves and remove the vulnerability. Fickle just as February, and never saying what we really want for fear of the commitment in spoken words.
posted by The Husskateer at 8:37 PM
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