Funny how memories hit you. One moment you're lying there in bed, almost asleep, and the next moment you're catapulted into a vision so strong you feel like you're actually there.
You and I were driving together last night. It was a glorious day, balmy but not too hot. It was an exciting day, too, because you'd finally bought the car you'd been wanting since you were a kid, and we'd taken off early from our respective workplaces so we could go pick it up and take it for a spin. I don't exactly understand cars, but I have to admit it's a beautiful machine - sleek and low, with gentle curves and paint of a deep cerulean blue, and an engine that purrs like a contented tiger. We've put the top down and we're driving down the Pacific Coast Highway, no plans for the day, not really going anywhere in particular, just driving around with the wind in our hair, smiling and laughing with the pure joy of being alive and not needing to be anywhere else but here.
Roy Orbison comes on the radio, singing "I Drove All Night," and I sneak a look at you from under my eyelashes to find that you're looking back at me. I should reprimand you for watching me instead of the road, but instead I laugh, because in that moment we're so very connected that I know exactly what you're thinking. I know that, despite the fact that we made no plans beyond picking up the car, we both know just how the rest of the day will go. The sun's getting lower in the sky, and in an hour or so we'll finish our drive at that little Italian place by the sea that we both like. We'll eat pasta and garlic bread and drink Nastro Azzurro on a terrace outside while we watch the sun set over the ocean. We'll linger over dinner for a couple hours, not hurrying, just enjoying the ambiance and the food and each others company, and then we'll drive home.
At home, I shower while you potter around in the kitchen. When I emerge from the shower, you're not in the kitchen anymore, but I know exactly where to find you, so I put on a pair of slippers and a light robe and pad outside to the pool. You're there, lying back on one of the loungers, a half bottle of wine and two glasses beside you, Israel Kamakawiwo'ole playing at a low volume on the CD player, and I stand and watch you for several minutes before you see me. I can't help but watch, because it's such a perfect, peaceful picture. When you see me, you smile, and pour me a glass of wine, and I settle down on the lounger next to you. Silences are companionable with you and me. We don't always need to fill them with talk, and right now we're happy to just sit there, sipping our wine and reveling in the beauty of the house and the night. After a little while, you put your wine aside and take my hand, and you smile at me, and you kiss me, and we naturally move into each others arms, dancing slowly on a patio under the stars, while the breeze rustles the bougainvillea plants and the scents of oleander and night jasmine weave a sensual spell around us.
You and I were driving together last night. It was a glorious day, balmy but not too hot. It was an exciting day, too, because you'd finally bought the car you'd been wanting since you were a kid, and we'd taken off early from our respective workplaces so we could go pick it up and take it for a spin. I don't exactly understand cars, but I have to admit it's a beautiful machine - sleek and low, with gentle curves and paint of a deep cerulean blue, and an engine that purrs like a contented tiger. We've put the top down and we're driving down the Pacific Coast Highway, no plans for the day, not really going anywhere in particular, just driving around with the wind in our hair, smiling and laughing with the pure joy of being alive and not needing to be anywhere else but here.
Roy Orbison comes on the radio, singing "I Drove All Night," and I sneak a look at you from under my eyelashes to find that you're looking back at me. I should reprimand you for watching me instead of the road, but instead I laugh, because in that moment we're so very connected that I know exactly what you're thinking. I know that, despite the fact that we made no plans beyond picking up the car, we both know just how the rest of the day will go. The sun's getting lower in the sky, and in an hour or so we'll finish our drive at that little Italian place by the sea that we both like. We'll eat pasta and garlic bread and drink Nastro Azzurro on a terrace outside while we watch the sun set over the ocean. We'll linger over dinner for a couple hours, not hurrying, just enjoying the ambiance and the food and each others company, and then we'll drive home.
At home, I shower while you potter around in the kitchen. When I emerge from the shower, you're not in the kitchen anymore, but I know exactly where to find you, so I put on a pair of slippers and a light robe and pad outside to the pool. You're there, lying back on one of the loungers, a half bottle of wine and two glasses beside you, Israel Kamakawiwo'ole playing at a low volume on the CD player, and I stand and watch you for several minutes before you see me. I can't help but watch, because it's such a perfect, peaceful picture. When you see me, you smile, and pour me a glass of wine, and I settle down on the lounger next to you. Silences are companionable with you and me. We don't always need to fill them with talk, and right now we're happy to just sit there, sipping our wine and reveling in the beauty of the house and the night. After a little while, you put your wine aside and take my hand, and you smile at me, and you kiss me, and we naturally move into each others arms, dancing slowly on a patio under the stars, while the breeze rustles the bougainvillea plants and the scents of oleander and night jasmine weave a sensual spell around us.
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