Free Fall

8,000 feet in the belly of the jump plane. Fluorescent lights lining
the inside here, casting sickly white shadows on our faces. We must
know this plane by heart now, not much else to do in Rague, Montana on
weekends. The experience is so familiar, so ingrained in our
memories, it's nothing short of ritual. Early morning coffee, drive
to the field in a beat-up blue toyota pickup. Gear check in the
lockers--drogue, primary. Altitude release preset for today's jump,
manual release triggering right. Fold it, roll it and stuff it into
the drab, olive grean pack.
Meet the pilot out on the strip, climb up into that twin
engine cessna. Pull down a seat in the jump bay and wait through
pre-check, taxi, takeoff. Unbuckle at altitude, roll back the door.
Clip in, wait until the drop zone, then clip onto the guy wire.
Unclip, jump, drop, realease and land. All in a perfect Sunday
morning.

Last week in our apartment, Thursday night on the ripped-up
futon mattress, staring at the ceiling, feel together on the ashed-up
green shag. Passed the J and then turned to face, lungs slowly
leaking smoke.

"Ever hear of a free fall fuck?"
"Wazzat?"
"I wanna fuck you this weekend when we drop. Want it to be us
together, nothing and no one around us, just falling"

Quiet. The cars speeding by on the state highway outside, spreading
glaring shadows through the window. A moth's batting at the yellow
bulb above us, trying to break its way in.

"Something else, too. Don't wanna puill. Wanna hit, hard,
and just before we die, wanna feel us crushed together, pressed to a
poing. It's how stars are made, y'know. All that pressure, all at
once. Stars, or diamonds"
"m"
"Been the same every day the last six months. Wake up, work,
fuck, sleep. It ain't gonna change, we just gonna get old and twenty,
thirty, fifty years from now gonna die, old and slow, from cancer or a
heart attack or some shit"
"Fuggin a"

Takes the last drag, stubs it out on the bedside paper plate, turns
Our eyes meet, and It's there.
Hit the light, climb on top, wake up and it's morning.

Met eight months ago in a Rague market. Picking up some canned food,
a couple six packs. Turn a corner and we slam together.

For that moment there, everything's going real slow. Hair's floating
in space, twisting together. See eyebrows, lips, cans falling, and
our eyes meet, lock.
Speeds up again. Swear, apologize, pick up and check out.

Outside, offer a lift back home. An hour later and we're sitting on
that old gray torn couch. See our reflections in the windows and
we're real pretty tonight. Six packs turn into three packs into one
packs and when they're gone, slam a fist into the light swith and
climb on top and in the morning we're still together.

Sunday and the plane's there and we're in it, 8,000 feet. That door
opens and we're out and we're falling.
The knives flash out and clothing flies away in scraps. Tilt, drift
and grab and we're together.
Spinning, earth's in focus below us. Hair's flapping in our faces,
twisting together and so are we. Cheeks feel our breath, hands moving
together, we're fumbling and it doesn't matter.

7,000, 6,000

Legs twining together, grinding.

4,000

Could see people now, if there were any people to see

3,000

heads snap back, screaming. Sun's bright in our faces and on our
bodies, wind's blasting by a thousand miles an hour.

1,000

Turn together. Eyes meet, lock. Feel alone up there, there's no one
else alive.

750

Hands flying out, still together, parallel to the ground.

500

I get my hand free, fumble and pull. I shut my eyes so I don't see
your face as you fall.

Who believes in this shit, anyway?