We are sitting on a stone slab, him behind with his arms around me, and me with my back to him, leaning against his chest. We are probably interlacing fingers - I can't remember exactly, our hands are in lazy but near-constant motion in their desire to be everywhere at once. We are talking about smells, and he is trying to figure out what mine is. His breath tickles my neck.
In the background of my head, thoughts form their usual filter to the outside world. They're not too thick at the moment, but their grey chatter is so much a part of me that I tend to forget it exists. There's the warm fuzz of being in love, residual elation at having gotten over my fear of it, reflexive worry at being seen, frustration with that worry, the stern reminder (in my mother's voice) that we're not doing anything wrong. There's the mental post-it note saying we're supposed to do the shopping, a vague irritation at the presence of mosquitoes. Not wanting to leave on Saturday, wondering when I can come back. Like headlines running across the bottom of the TV screen.
"That's it!" he says, "Hay. Hay and... chestnuts. You smell like autumn."
"Really?" Surprised. Pleased. "Wow..."
I look up at the leaves, find one backlit by a ray of sunlight and transformed, like a dancer in the spotlight.
And suddenly, I'm there.
The filter is gone, and my senses blink awake. I can feel him behind me, his chest warm through his shirt, and smell him - like hot bread dough - mixed with the cut grass smell of the park. My skin prickles against the breeze on my arms and legs, and his words hum against my back. Our hands are warm, and the air is fresh, and the leaves are green as gold.
In the background of my head, thoughts form their usual filter to the outside world. They're not too thick at the moment, but their grey chatter is so much a part of me that I tend to forget it exists. There's the warm fuzz of being in love, residual elation at having gotten over my fear of it, reflexive worry at being seen, frustration with that worry, the stern reminder (in my mother's voice) that we're not doing anything wrong. There's the mental post-it note saying we're supposed to do the shopping, a vague irritation at the presence of mosquitoes. Not wanting to leave on Saturday, wondering when I can come back. Like headlines running across the bottom of the TV screen.
"That's it!" he says, "Hay. Hay and... chestnuts. You smell like autumn."
"Really?" Surprised. Pleased. "Wow..."
I look up at the leaves, find one backlit by a ray of sunlight and transformed, like a dancer in the spotlight.
And suddenly, I'm there.
The filter is gone, and my senses blink awake. I can feel him behind me, his chest warm through his shirt, and smell him - like hot bread dough - mixed with the cut grass smell of the park. My skin prickles against the breeze on my arms and legs, and his words hum against my back. Our hands are warm, and the air is fresh, and the leaves are green as gold.
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