They walk hand in hand.
Palm to palm.
His hand over, her hand under . . . as always.
Along the two-tracked dirt road, two small paths of parallel intention.
A road that leads nowhere.
Their destination.
In the middle of nowhere is a swamp.
She distinguishes swamps from other bodies of water by their secrecy. Swamps tuck themselves beneath the low-slung trees and beyond the swaying grasses. Lily-pads and small green forests of algae lie placidly, a blanket of green that both embraces the surface tension and belies the depths below. Swamps are invisible until you begin to sink into their existence. She knows this swamp is here, but it is not until she hears the sucking sound of her shoes as they are pulled into mud that she believes.
The pull is strong.
A pull she is not inclined to resist.
She removes her shoes and hurls them through the air to dry safety.
He laughs as her shoes fly past him.
He watches as she ventures farther alone.
As she stands and sinks into the earth.
Allows herself to be pulled downward into secrecy.
The swamp is not formed by water from above, but by seepage from below. The dark rich liquid of a life lived underground fills the spaces between her toes and then reaches higher. Pulls at her feet and her imagination.
She does not resist this pull.
She loves everything about this moment.
He watches her and waits.
She makes him wait, prolonging this moment . . . stretching out its edges like taffy.
Stretching the moment and yet shortening the distance between the two of them.
Pulling him to her.
Or her to him.
It does not matter with whom the power lies . . . the distance will be closed.
He has picked a flower for her.
A Lady Slipper, its purple-slitted satin oval a slipper for an elfin princess.
A protected flower . . . a flower that is not to be picked.
She looks at him questioningly and he speaks gruffly, “Rules are made to be broken. You deserve for rules to be broken.”
She holds the orchid flower in her hand, sad that it has been picked but delighted that he deems her worthy of this small transgression.
She retrieves her shoes.
They walk hand in hand.
Palm to palm.
His hand over, her hand under . . . as always.
They walk to a small field of flowered green.
They stand together at its edge.
She watches as breezes caress the field . . . watches the small shudders of response as the grasses dip and sway.
She holds the Lady Slipper in her hand . . . a twisted gorgeous alien creature . . . its beauty otherworldly.
She holds tight.
Holds his hand.
His hand over, her hand under . . . as always.
They walk to a shaded spot and he sits down.
Still holding her hand, he pulls her down beside him.
The pull is strong.
She is not inclined to resist.
She allows herself to be pulled downward into secrecy.
She kicks off her shoes again and wiggles her dirty toes into the earth.
She pushes and pulls her feet through the dirt . . . marking a miniature two-track road.
Two small paths of parallel intention.
She does not turn to meet his eyes.
She stares out at the grass as it undulates beneath the breeze’s kiss.
He speaks but she does not listen . . . she is busy stretching out this moment in her mind . . . stretching out its edges like taffy.
Stretching the moment as the distance between them is shortened.
He is pulled to her.
She is pulled to him.
It does not matter with whom the power lies . . . the distance is closed.
His hands.
Her hands.
She loves everything about all the moments that lead to this moment, and she recognizes that the moments before lead to this moment here.
A price she will pay.
She prefers her hands on him, and so she moves.
She carefully shrugs his touch away and moves.
She moves to separate button from its slip.
She moves to perform a small lowering . . . a faint untoothed metallic sound.
She almost speaks of how she is reminded of the flower he has given her. The flower that rests in the dirt behind them. The flower that is not to be picked.
The rules that he would break for her.
She almost speaks, but she does not speak.
Remembering past harshness, she lets this moment pass in silence.
He takes her hand in his again.
The pull is strong.
She is not inclined to resist.
He pulls her hand to him.
This time his hand flat atop hers.
His hand over, her hand under . . . as always.
Two small paths of parallel intention.
A road to nowhere.
Their destination.
