Pomegranate Night

Between them words are few and far between.

She looks at his shoes.  She isn’t wearing any.  He smells of soap and aftershave.  He cleaned up for her.  She brushed her teeth four times.  This was before she started smoking—she will start a year from this moment.  He pulls her close to him and puts his mouth over hers, it is a little wet.  She feels her heart drop down to her stomach.  He feels satisfied with himself.  Later he will take some more of her—this is what he has come for.

Inside the house they hear snoring.  She giggles half nervously.

I have not yet told you.  This rendezvous is late at night—several hours after midnight.  She had to sneak outside.  They are hiding by the side of the house.  It is not her house, and it isn’t his either.

They go to the garden behind the house—the sweet smell of August.  She touches his face, whispers his name in his ear.

He smiles, closes his eyes, and says her name.  It rolls off his tongue like honey.

They stand close together and breathe each other in.  She thinks this is all so wildly romantic—the faded poppy red fence of the garden, the yellowed roses, the sweet smell of lilacs.  They can both feel the summer on their skin—the fresh air of the night.

They will not see each other ever again after tonight.