Darlings, which I always write. Never something as droll as Dear Diary. The stories of my dalliances and adventures are meant to inspire, not sit limpid on a page, tucked in a drawer.
Yes, I am home now. But, there is a heat that continues to pulse. One particular story among many, needing to be told as I sit on my garden swing, under the stars. Perhaps it is the rhythmic back and forth that has awakened the evocative details. Let’s return to that perfect evening for just a moment, because I know you are wondering – beyond wondering. As I would be.
Who had left the messages? Did I call the number on the back of His card…or perhaps boldly- as is my style of course- change into something wonderfully more Me and play at my version of Room Service, delivered.
I am tempted to fast forwarding beyond those answers. Or should I say, stories within stories? The night air is coaxing the details onto the poised tip of my pen. Our evening of dining under the stars was not to be wasted by decorum and gentle coasting. The story of the message will wait but not my very deliberate next steps.
Of course, yes, I returned to my room and found Angeline waiting for me to take her from the closet and finalize my decision. I had already made it when our final kiss ended with the delicate, grief that happens when hopeful lips part ways however temporarily. The fusion of our promised flavours exchanged more than a promise as our tongues brushed together.. When that promise would be fulfilled, he, as a gentleman, perfectly left for me to decide.
I can’t say he was surprised when I opened the door to his room. He had, after all, left it unlocked. The breeze caressed me seconds before he did. My kaftan... perfect for my measured hallway dash, danced open and parted to reveal, well, everything.
He was, of course, strong and sure as he lifted me….but not to the bed. At least, not directly. First, we had to finish the promise of a kiss that had started as a whisper and suddenly became bolder and more insistent. Was it me Ladies, or was it Him demanding this moment climb to heights beyond the stars we had stood beneath? We blurred and it was both of us.
My legs wrapped around him as he pulled me higher and deeper into the ultimate dance. The wall, the entire room became a third player, giving direction and blessing to the wickedly yearning of our love making. The chairs- yes, both of them, the table, and yes, Ladies, that too, ceased to be furniture and instead became extensions of our desire, our reach, a stretch beyond ourselves to that perfect place of shared bliss and rhythmic connection.
I gasped….more than once. As did he. I left him sleeping in a tangle of smiling sheets and the beginnings of a sunrise, christened with satisfaction.
So yes, Ladies. It was a yes. And packing to return home was somehow sweeter with newer memories to fold in with stories of him and I from Before.
There is a particular quality of light on the water at day's end that no fashion editor has ever properly named — something between gold, possibilities and confession — and it was in that light, on that dock, that I eventually arrived home.
You know how I feel about beginnings. I have never trusted them. But returns — returns are a different creature altogether. A return means someone remembers your name. A return means the harbor exhales when it sees you. And you embrace it.
The Other was waiting. I hadn't asked him to be. I hadn’t even returned his message. I hadn't told a soul, in fact, when I was returning. Which is precisely why I should have known better than to be surprised — you, my Sirens have informants everywhere, and the promise of love, apparently, travels faster than any shoreline highway. And he, of course, knew precisely who to ask.
I won't pretend my knees behaved themselves.
XXOXO Your Weaselle
