she spoke she reached around to the front of my shirt and unbuttoned it further; she pushed the material aside and concentrated on the one shoulder. She put some of her weight though her palms and it seemed to push right inside me.
I took an open mouth breath; it shuddered on the intake.
She leant in. ‘It’s okay.’
I reached up to push her hands away and at the same time lowered my chest to my knees. The wind was colder where her hands had been and printed an icy tattoo on my skin. She spread her hands over my shoulder blades. I tried to shrug her off, but she pressed with her palms, working quickly to cover wide areas of my back, as if to desensitise me.
I clenched my teeth and furiously held in my hot grief while she rubbed with hands so heavy with compassion I hated them.
‘Stop,’ I muttered.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘Sit up.’
As I did, she came around in front of me. I let her see my face, the tears in my eyes, the heavy pull in my mouth, and the inconsolable ache behind it all. Her hand came up and she touched my face, feeling over my skin, tracing a kind line that was unmistakably platonic.
‘I know how you feel,’ she said. ‘It’s like you’re so far inside yourself your skin is not a part of your body, and it’s not your body anyway, because this isn’t you. This life isn’t yours. I know, Shannon. I feel it too. You’re not alone.’
As full as I felt, hurting with backlog, with words I wanted to say, I knew I wouldn’t speak. The same went for my tears and the steamy pain in my throat – I wouldn’t let it out; I couldn’t.
She took my hands in hers, and lifted them and had me press my palm to the side of her face. Her skin was soft, and my fingers so roughened I couldn’t feel the true softness of it. I felt with my fingers along her jaw and she closed her eyes.
‘There’s no freedom,’ I said, ‘in anything.’
Her head dipped as I pushed my hand into her hair. She came closer, between my knees. I lowered my head to rest on the top of hers. Her head was near my chest and I was sure she could hear the thud of my heart.
My breathing began to deepen with her nearness, the slow heat of arousal travelled through my limbs, but also, I was able to feel the slight stiffening in her as she sensed the shift in my emotions.
I reached for her hand and squeezed it tighter than I should; she went to stand and I clamped it possessively to my leg.
‘I want to finish,’ she said.
I took some breaths while she came around behind me.
Her hands were more real to me this time and I felt able to cope better with the reminders they sent smarting through me. My chin eventually dropped to my chest and my breathing became relaxed. It felt good. Her hands slowed to lazy and unconscious and her body pressed into the back of the chair.
‘ We dance around the ring and suppose ,’ she said, ‘ but the secret sits in the middle and knows . Do you know that poem?’
I shook my head.
‘Robert Frost. I can’t remember any more of it. I only ever remember good lines … bits and pieces …’ She thought a moment. ‘What about this one,’ she said.
‘ “ Is there anybody there?” said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor.’
‘I like that,’ I said.
She began to drag her nails lightly up the back of my neck. My eyes involuntarily closed. ‘And that,’ I murmured.
Some purpose returned to her hands, and for awhile I drifted, close to sleep.
‘God I miss books,’ she said. ‘I miss everything about them: the smell, the print, the pages. Please tell me there’s a novel somewhere in this cabin.’
‘Apart from the Bible, it’s all factual I’m afraid.’
‘The Bible’s not a bad read. I could read it to you.’
‘Not the Bible – no way.’
She rested her chin on the top of my head and sighed, her hands on my shoulders. ‘ My heart aches, and drowsy numbness pains … on beechen
I took an open mouth breath; it shuddered on the intake.
She leant in. ‘It’s okay.’
I reached up to push her hands away and at the same time lowered my chest to my knees. The wind was colder where her hands had been and printed an icy tattoo on my skin. She spread her hands over my shoulder blades. I tried to shrug her off, but she pressed with her palms, working quickly to cover wide areas of my back, as if to desensitise me.
I clenched my teeth and furiously held in my hot grief while she rubbed with hands so heavy with compassion I hated them.
‘Stop,’ I muttered.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘Sit up.’
As I did, she came around in front of me. I let her see my face, the tears in my eyes, the heavy pull in my mouth, and the inconsolable ache behind it all. Her hand came up and she touched my face, feeling over my skin, tracing a kind line that was unmistakably platonic.
‘I know how you feel,’ she said. ‘It’s like you’re so far inside yourself your skin is not a part of your body, and it’s not your body anyway, because this isn’t you. This life isn’t yours. I know, Shannon. I feel it too. You’re not alone.’
As full as I felt, hurting with backlog, with words I wanted to say, I knew I wouldn’t speak. The same went for my tears and the steamy pain in my throat – I wouldn’t let it out; I couldn’t.
She took my hands in hers, and lifted them and had me press my palm to the side of her face. Her skin was soft, and my fingers so roughened I couldn’t feel the true softness of it. I felt with my fingers along her jaw and she closed her eyes.
‘There’s no freedom,’ I said, ‘in anything.’
Her head dipped as I pushed my hand into her hair. She came closer, between my knees. I lowered my head to rest on the top of hers. Her head was near my chest and I was sure she could hear the thud of my heart.
My breathing began to deepen with her nearness, the slow heat of arousal travelled through my limbs, but also, I was able to feel the slight stiffening in her as she sensed the shift in my emotions.
I reached for her hand and squeezed it tighter than I should; she went to stand and I clamped it possessively to my leg.
‘I want to finish,’ she said.
I took some breaths while she came around behind me.
Her hands were more real to me this time and I felt able to cope better with the reminders they sent smarting through me. My chin eventually dropped to my chest and my breathing became relaxed. It felt good. Her hands slowed to lazy and unconscious and her body pressed into the back of the chair.
‘ We dance around the ring and suppose ,’ she said, ‘ but the secret sits in the middle and knows . Do you know that poem?’
I shook my head.
‘Robert Frost. I can’t remember any more of it. I only ever remember good lines … bits and pieces …’ She thought a moment. ‘What about this one,’ she said.
‘ “ Is there anybody there?” said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor.’
‘I like that,’ I said.
She began to drag her nails lightly up the back of my neck. My eyes involuntarily closed. ‘And that,’ I murmured.
Some purpose returned to her hands, and for awhile I drifted, close to sleep.
‘God I miss books,’ she said. ‘I miss everything about them: the smell, the print, the pages. Please tell me there’s a novel somewhere in this cabin.’
‘Apart from the Bible, it’s all factual I’m afraid.’
‘The Bible’s not a bad read. I could read it to you.’
‘Not the Bible – no way.’
She rested her chin on the top of my head and sighed, her hands on my shoulders. ‘ My heart aches, and drowsy numbness pains … on beechen
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