Breathe me in

 

---

 
I wake up, and the first thing I do, even before opening my eyes, is smile. The scent of our bodies, intertwined, lingers in the air. The temperature of the place is just right, and it feels very pleasant on my bare skin. With my eyes still closed, I turn around and find your body under my draped leg, and I run my fingers through the hair in your chest, lightly, as to not wake you up. I've memorized every inch of you, and my hands know the path; there's no need to see when you can truly feel.

The waltzing of the sun rays that enter the room, filtered by the waving curtains, is perceivable through my eyelids. I sigh, quietly, breathing in the soft exhalation of the wall of flowers that sits right outside the window. And then, I hear you chuckle. You have been watching me this whole time. We laugh in all our silliness until it hurts; me, rolling into your embrace, and your arms surrounding me in a way that is perfectly ours. I remember the song, a Spanish one, which I've sung for you a million times.

Tengo ganas de ser aire, y me respires para siempre, pues no tengo nada que perder...

Yes, I long to be air, and that you breathe me forever, for I have nothing to lose. We lay there in silence for a few minutes, just staring deep into each other's souls, settling into the peaceful bliss of being together. Then... Your evil smile kicks in, and you start tickling me until I'm breathless. It's time for breakfast in bed. A little Saturday ritual of us, one we commit to religiously and gladly, and after which we shower, go downstairs, and actually have food.

 

 

Our Saturday's (second) breakfast is frequently a quick, simple one because I tend to insist that you go and see the guys for a few hours. I know you'd rather stay inside of with me, but we do need our separate lives from time to time and I enjoy the renovated energy you always come home with afterward. So... While I make coffee, toast some bread, slice tomatoes, and some cheese, you gather your stuff and get your kit ready. You come and go from the kitchen, peeking in to see what I'm doing, oftentimes moving my hair aside and dropping a kiss on the back of my neck or on my shoulder. Your beard tickles me, and I crack up every time.

Sitting at the bar stools on the counter, we eat and drink the precious jittery liquid, and talk. Our conversations are one of the things I cherish the most; a true encounter of like minds, with opinions that differ just enough to make it interesting and stimulating. "Babe, I've been asked how my ideal weekend would be!", I say, as I look at my phone. We don't usually use our devices when we're sharing meals, or ever, for that matter, but sometimes we do to share relevant stuff that we have liked.

"Oh, have you? Hmm, what about we show them, yes, what our ideal weekend would be, and actually looks like?" You grin, and a few crumbs fall on your shirt. You can be messy sometimes, and I don't mind, not in the slightest, but it always makes me laugh. "Okay, but how about you stop fooling around and go vanquish some foes already?", I reply, punching your arm in a playful way, no harm intended. "You punch like a girl, you nutbag. Like my girl. Which you are". I stick my tongue out in your direction as you pick up the dishes. "Yours, babe", I say, in an eager whisper, as you walk out the door.

You've been gone for about two hours, and I've been in my painting room, immersed in the beach scenery I'm working on. My apron displays paint stains, and the fragrance of gouache fills my senses. I look at my silver wristwatch, the one you gifted to me, and I almost fall out of my chair. I'm late, damn it! Rushing like a demon on speed, I get ready to go to the café where we'll meet. And as I apply a bit of makeup, just enough to enhance some of my natural beauty, I remember another Spanish tune I always sing for you.

Rímel de miel pa' corregir la tristeza...

Honey mascara to correct the blues. That's what I put on for our little weekend date, a dash of extra sweetness to make you fall for me, each time a little harder. Honey dripping from me to erase the blues of both the past and the upcoming workweek. I choose to wear the summer dress you like the most, knowing what it will do to you. Can't help but smirk in anticipation. I'm finally ready, and even a few minutes early. I always give myself a reasonable amount of time to deal with the creative trance without losing my valuable punctuality, pretending I'm late when I know very well I'll be just in time to greet you there. No wonder you think I'm smart! Grabbing your book and mine, I sing as I dance out the door, almost savouring that first kiss when we're together again.

 

 

As I walk to our usual café, I practice my invisibility, a trait I can't use when I'm with you. Not that I mind, of course. Walking with my hand on your arm, both your gentlemanliness and my joyful yet shy shine can't go unnoticed. Together, it's impossible to be invisible. But as I walk alone, while I delight in the weather, I fade into an imperceptible figure. It's a skill I've mastered with time, and one you admire and like very much. You don't quite agree with the fact that I choose to go there on my own when you could pick me up at the house, but you respect my desire to get some air and exercise my ability to disappear into the crowd.

When you arrive, I'm waiting for you at our predilect booth, the one that's always reserved for us. You see me trying hard to hide a smile as I read, which gives away the fact that I've been side-staring at the door for the past five minutes. "Hello, little flower. Do you come often around here?" Cheeky as fuck, as per usual, and you know what that does to me. You signal one of the waiters, and they bring our order. We eat, laugh, converse, people-watch, dropping the axes and holding tight to the holy coffee cups.

 

 

It's time to go home, and you slide the card across the table, winking at me. I get up to pay, feeling your eyes tour my body as I walk to the cash register and back, blushed and trying really hard not to tumble. When I get back to the table, you're reclined in your seat, legs slightly spread (such a manly thing to do!), arms open, and resting by your sides. Your gaze fixated on mine, as you say exactly what I long to hear: "I missed you, baby". There's that damn smirk, really putting to test my equilibrium as my knees go weak. Oh, and your eyes... Another Spanish song comes to my mind, and I can't help but hum it.

Tener tus ojos debe ser ilegal, y más si cuando miras solo inspiras a pecar; esa sonrisa peculiar, de jugar a tentar, letal; esos dotes que sí sabes como usar para matar...

Oh, darlin'. To have your eyes must be illegal, and even more so if when you look you only inspire me to sin; that peculiar smile, of playing to tempt, lethal; those gifts that you do know how to use to kill... The dangerous gleam in my eyes tells you that yes, indeed, it is time to be home. We rush to our safe haven and fill the house with love. Later, we make pizzas and put on a movie. Tomato, buffalo mozzarella, grated mozzarella, rosemary, basil, and a few olives. Doesn't get better than that. And for the umpteenth time, Pearl Harbor. And us, perfectly entwined in the couch.

 

 

The sun has gone down, and it's time for a walk together. "Now, baby, let's show these people what an ideal weekend is like, yes?" Your voice, deep and faintly hoarse, makes me tremble. We stand in the middle of the living room, so close that your breath tingles my lips, and as you lean on and kiss me... We teleport. And there we are, at the most beautiful beach I've ever seen. We sit in a weathered log, big enough to support us both, and I rest my head on your shoulder as we hold hands, closing my eyes. I fall asleep at the sound of the waves crashing on the shore. Without waking me, you tuck me into your arms, and with another kiss, we're back home, safe and sound, and perfectly together.

 

 

---

 
Sunday morning. Another ritual of us, the one we cherish the most. Holding each other, we walk the razor-sharp edge of pleasure, and that's about all I'm willing to share with the world of those moments. The rest is ours, and ours only. A shower, and then we have breakfast, or should I say brunch, in the garden. Simple fare, as we are simple people, but garnished with the beautiful way in which our talks flow. Then, we gather our gear, some snacks, and with another kiss, we're out for a hike in the mountains we love the most.

 

 

The motion of one foot in front of the other is cathartic for both of us, and the pine forest embraces us. The stillness of the air, the sounds of our walking masked since it's quite wet underfoot, a sunny but still pleasantly cool day. We look up above where the trees contrast pleasingly with the blue sky and feel deep contentment. We reach the top of the mountain and take some time to soak in the view while sharing some trail mix, sliced fruits, and water. Simple, and perfectly us. Another kiss and we're back home.

The weekend's fading and we're keen to make the most of it, but for now, there are matters to tend to around the house. We're not afraid to admit that we love each other's company so much; that's why we do our gardening together, and then devote some time to catch up with a few tasks in your workshop. Neither of us has ever been one to shy away from a little hard work, and if it requires masterful attention to detail, even better.

When it's time to have a bit of a late lunch, I ask you to please take me to that beach again, where we have fish and chips sitting right next to the stone pier where the waves go to die and be born again. We stay there, sometimes reading, sometimes with our eyes lost in the horizon, lulled by the song of the sea. I start to get restless, and we decide to get some vanilla and macadamia ice cream and take it with us as we stroll along next to the shore, wading through the water at times, often in silence but occasionally chatting.

 

 

As soon as my hands are free and the dessert's gone, the little devil I can be takes over, and I sneak up on you, trying to push you into the water, laughing like a madwoman. I don't succeed, of course, but I get exactly what I want: you, muttering, commanding, "babe, come here!" as you smirk as evilly as you can. I do, and your breathing mixes with mine, caressing my lips, blowing a hint of the salt in the air into my soul. Another kiss and we're home.
 

---

This write-up responds to a special posting contest, conducted by Galen. You can find the original proposal, containing all the prompts and rules, here. If you're reading this and haven't participated, kindly allow me to encourage you to do so. I promise you'll have fun! And if you've already written your entry, be sure to check other authors' take on the prompt. There are a lot of interesting views out there.

---

^{Sources of the images:
📷 by Annie Spratt
📷 by R ARCHITECTURE
📷 by Raphael Lovaski
📷 by Kris Atomic
📷 by Carissa Gan
📷 by David Clode
📷 by Alex Lemoing
📷 by David Clode}

---

^{I'd like to thank you for reading this. I hope my words resonated with you in some way. This story is entirely fictional (in case you didn't pick up on that), yet I acknowledge that there's often a blurry, trembling line between fiction and reality. After all, what can be more chimerical than the reality we live in?}