184: Sally in the Summer
by Danny James
At the time that we met, Sally was engaged to be wed and I was content in my own affairs. Perhaps it was in my busyness that I had not acquired a ready authority for rebuttal against sudden occasions of intimacy, and so was quite unprepared to find her presence so pleasantly misleading and necessary, further abrading my habitual disinterest of company with our every interaction. A faint esurience begun to beat in the blood, escalating a percussive verve into a tremorous diastole of an exposed unignorable space. The work to which my poise I long so diligently committed soon lost much of its relevance and appeal. A fog of some unknowable insight fell, at which I flinched initially, but soon found myself wading through in earnest, hung on the idea of precisely what I did not know, as when children act on instinctual whim and charge on wonderings that age and experience in propriety deny. And through the bedlam of grown-up static it steals from time to time, hitched upon a desperate sigh of fading impulse. – As when you find yourself more frequently not rushing from your car but instead, sitting and staring undecided in longer and longer bouts of absentminded relief, that you can finally slump without a witness to your inauthenticity. But the breach of some striking sense impression soon compels sobriety again, – such as windscreen frost glistening in the rays of a rising sun. Or the gradual intrigue of your breath visible in the Autumn morning, and you return at once enkindled again, to that which you must with all your present best.
Innocent departure kisses drew longer, and made from the cheek to the corners of our lips, assuming an unspoken daring and inappropriate delightfulness from which neither would withdraw, nor with talk delay hurrying to. I anticipated the forbidden collisions, prior outlining the usual bodily contact points, and leapt in hot to press our hips and the edges of lip flesh revelling the glimpse of plaguing joy in her eyes seconds before.
My hand found always its home in the svelte curvature of her lower back and each time as I pulled closer Sally would bounce to her toes so as to fit perfectly into the invitation. We held on, swaying in the silent affirmation, lingering the thoughts and savouring the rush of throbbing blood.