With The Summer

The Original Twenty-Something Series: Part Two

“And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

The too-big dress shirt dripped around my toes, clung to the curves of my thighs, drooped lopsidedly over my right shoulder. The air was full that night, sun-brushed and balmy. I took deep, even breaths, gulping it in, savoring the taste of summer: the creamy, liquor-laced bloom of it. I stood still for a long time, my arms wrapped around my middle, the newly tanned skin of my arms and legs pebbling from the night’s cool breath. The thin fabric of the too-big dress shirt suctioned to my body, enveloped me in a heavy, chlorine-saturated cocoon.

In honeyed voices the boys dared me to jump back in. It was not unusual for me to be the only female among a rowdy group of  males. To be honest, I preferred their company to that of my own sex. I was fond of their candid speech, the way I could read their moods like words on a page. I reveled in my distinction as the “female friend,” in my simultaneous sameness and separateness. The fact that I could be attracted to them, or them to me was, under normal circumstances, an afterthought. It was their acceptance I craved, their blunt words, their crude jokes.

But that night was different. That night in my sopping, too-big dress shirt, the summer air buzzing around me, I felt sexy. I mouthed the word, and it tasted strange and exotic on my tongue. I grabbed Johnnie Walker Red, my plus-one for the evening, and slunk towards the pool, a deliberate sway to my hips.  I stood at the edge for a moment, dipping the ends of my toes in the tepid water and uncapping Johnnie Walker, giving him a kiss. One of the boys swam over to me, the one whose too-big dress shirt now clung suggestively to my frame.

I crouched next to him and playfully ruffled his hair, the wet strands slipping easily through my fingers. He reached for the bottle in my hand but I dangled it above his head, just out of his reach. So, this was what it was like to be coy. I barely had time to enjoy my accomplishment when I felt a palm on the small of my back, heard the rush of water in my ears. The pool swallowed me up, the too-big dress shirt blossoming around me. I stayed beneath the surface, watching as the water swirled and contorted, a fluidic kaleidoscope. On the other side of the pool I could discern the cloudy contours of the boy’s legs, the boy who had handed me his too-big dress shirt with a sheepish grin and eyes alight with summer heat.

How easy it would be, I thought, to simply float, to stay lost in the comforting haze. Because for me, relationships were a haze of their own, dark clouds that rained ambiguous remarks and awkward touches, always accompanied by a stream of “probably’s,” maybe’s,” and “I don’t know’s”. The uncertainty of it all was exasperating, and I often wondered why anyone dared to make their heart vulnerable to another human being. Perhaps that was the reason why I clung to my degree of detachment like a life raft: to ignore attraction, to remain friends, was the easiest path, the comforting haze. I was exhausted from reassembling myself, from attempting to repair an already calloused heart.

But then I felt the boy’s hand on my waist, felt him tug me to the dim light of the surface by the fabric of his too-big dress shirt. We bobbed next to each other for a moment, taking in the greenery, the dreamy warmth of summer that roused the senses, a warmth that let me breathe as though it was the first time. The boy turned to me, his fingers lingering on my skin, and smiled. He smiled and I remembered why it was always so astonishingly easy for me to surrender my heart, for me to gather the fragments of myself and start all over again.

Heat

There is something about heat, about sunlight, that is staggering after a long winter. After days and nights spent in the envelope of wool caps, thick sweaters, and English Breakfast tea. There is a depth to it, a heaviness, as though you could reach out your hand and grasp it, let it slip slowly through your fingers like molasses. The cold of winter perpetuates a stillness, a peaceful air that numbs the senses. In a state of tacit hibernation you burrow beneath your blankets, revel in the gray light that emanates from the cracks in your curtains, the soft darkness that fills your room. But when the heat returns it is everywhere, all at once, and in that fullness your senses return as well. Air becomes amplified, no longer a simple necessity but an intoxicating perfume that impels your eyes to close at the freshness of it, as though you have never tasted it before. Breathe in. Breathe out.

There is something about heat that causes pricks and tingles beneath skin. Those blankets which were such a comfort against the biting cold are now strewn about, sheets discarded and tangled at the edge of your bed. Bare legs become a prerequisite to sleep, the touch of fabric unbearable for it keeps the delicious fever at bay. Your windows are always open, muggy warmth seeping through the miniscule patchwork of mesh screens.  You twist about the mattress, arms above your head, knees curled to your stomach. You run your hands along your legs, fingernails dragging across newly tanned skin, the color of caramel. The heat is trapped beneath the softness of thighs, the saltiness of sweat. It buzzes along the curves of your hips, in between the crooks of your elbows. The satisfying sensation causes you to bite your lips, a sigh caught between your teeth. Breathe in. Breathe out.

There is something about heat that stirs memories, conjures dreams. The night you drank honey whiskey, the bottle neck dangling from your hand as you danced around the fire. Embers, flecks of gold, drifted up into the welcoming arms of the evergreens, the smell of charred wood and fresh earth omnipresent. The balmy afternoon you spent with a blue-eyed boy lying in an open field, tall stalks of wild grass shielding you from the outside. You nested with him in that space, limbs intertwined, breath heavy, his hands frantic and searching. His hands that whispered secrets, a conversation between fingers and skin. The morning you awoke with heavy eyelids and a heavier head, shirt on backwards, jeans torn at the knees, the balls of your feet black with mud. The morning you awoke and attempted to remember a night lost to the open air. The morning you awoke and realized that none of it mattered. All that was left was the heat. You lay your throbbing head against the ground, soft soil pressed against your cheek, a kaleidoscope of sunlight splashed across your skin. Breathe in. Breathe out.

A Poem for the Wanderer

That night there was the sun and the moon, and us
And we were in between
How monotonous those hot days became, the sun burning holes in our skin
We were in search of adventure, a secret

We piled into the van, charmingly clunky, plum purple
The inside upholstery reeking of wet canine and old fast food
We drove for miles, the rough turf cracking and popping beneath bare tires
Then there we were, the five of us making a path

The sharp stalks, high as our knees, left invisible imprints on our bronzed legs
Bruised and scratched from previous escapades
We were a band of vagabonds, rascals, wanderers
We bedded down in the greenery, a million pins sticking our arms

We talked of liquor and sunshine, our words garbled with laughter
Smoke slithered from our lips, toxic clouds that formed gray bundles
in the warm, august air
Our eyes hazy, thoughts a mist behind our lashes
We wanted to forget, if only for a moment

The brilliant sky burned above us,
our voices echoing into the space beyond
And all of a sudden there was the moon,
And then there was the sun, and we were in between

We said nothing, our minds silent,
the music of insects filling the stillness of the night
We knew that it was time to go, time to find a new escape, but we lingered
Reveling in the equinox
This self-proclaimed equator

We drove off towards the moon, that changeable, haunting orb
Its size growing ominously as miles fell behind us
We left the sun
That reliable, shining light that seemed to revive our senses
That reminded us of everything that was about to disappear.