By Gala
Date: 26 July 2000
Sweet Heart Dance At Mc Connell Park
<< Indian summer wistful warm,
balmy days, cooler nights
chasing the green from the trees
and leaving an autumnal prism
in the small park
in the town center.
He comes as always,
the chair laden
with easel,
a battered thermos
a paint stained wooden box---
and maybe an apple or two.
He pushes smoothly at the wheels
with arms grown strong and wiry---
the waist tapering in contrast
you could see those arms
execute a perfect iron cross
and he's learned to forgive
the ain't-it-a-damned-shame smiles
people turn his way.
His life is simpler now----
and he could get the motorized chair,
but that is being a slave to technology.
The kind you self propel
cuts sharper turns
and just don't command pity---
something he learned not to need.
He goes to the Park in the Fall
for the band of stately elms
that remind him of the park of his youth
where the trick was to rise early
on parade day
hit the corner bakery as it opened
snag some doughnuts
still warm enough
to make the jelly runny
then climb one of the trees to wait
for the music,
the old guys,
the fire company
the ladies auxiliary
and the school band
with the pretty majorettes
in white calf boots.
He paints more than the trees
and the locals will nose past,
comment
and scurry off
smiling sort of---
like he's got something they might catch.
And the unwritten rule
is that no one looks at his legs.
No looking down on the unemployed,
he quips---half to himself-------
and is stunned by a laugh.
She's back....
Half a dozen times now---
at first she hung back like the rest,
but each time she draw closer,
drawn by a profile---
and something that happens to his face
when the painting thing catches him.
Once or twice,
she's actually spoken to him,
but he's never heard her laugh
and the sound felt like
the Indian summer sun
gently baking into his shoulders.
He turns slightly,
and drops a smile
with the easy grace of a big tipper,
murmurs a welcome,
and returns to his work---
she's skittish
and this time he will honor her silence
rather than chase her off
but in that glance he took in
the messy pile of hair
spilling softly around her face,
burnt auburn,
calm light eyes
blue-----sometimes green
when the light hit them right
and an absurd wide brimmed hat
worn for shade
for that milk pale skin---
and maybe for camouflage as well.
She tries not to be embarrassed--
it seemed like prying somehow
but the comment was funny---
not bitter, not harsh
just an observation
from a clever heart.
She glances at him again,
he seems absorbed---
and yet she feels his regard
sweep her like radar.
He speaks softly
and calls himself a cripple
none of that warm and fuzzy
"challenged" PC crap for him.
It's verbal shock troops to make her see him
beyond the chair,
not some noble, suffering creature
but simply as a man
living his life.
He hears her breath catch---
but a glance reveals a smile,
no, the pity bomb is defused
and her eyes sweep the canvas
and him
taking in the arms, the shoulders and neck
and resting a moment on his chest.
He catches her looking
and instead of darting her eyes away
she fixes her regard
on his mouth.
It is like she kissed him---
and his lips tingle and pulse softly.
He never lost the need for touch---
for contact,
and while some crips
play the pity game to get their chips,
he never has.
Dead below the waist
suggested only half alive---
and he was fully living,
if not fully functional.
He turned to face her
fixing his eyes on her mouth---
a pouty lower lip
like a Victorian cherub
begging to be tasted,
perhaps nipped--
but certainly savored.
He watched her flush---
half with embarrassment
half with pleasure
and felt something swell inside of him.
For ten seconds
she had been a lovely woman
being kissed by a man
in the Indian summer sun.
And now she would leave--
they always did.
Only she stood firm,
her brain turning over the recent event
and considering him carefully.
Then she walked softly
to the front of the chair,
and smiling
leaned forward
leaned in
and made the kiss
into something real.
He dropped the brush
and felt the life in her---
warm, pulsing, hummingbird agile.
her mouth was gentle
and he knew what it had taken
for her to make such a gesture,
the fear she had pushed away
to see him simply as a man
she wanted to kiss.
He drew her lip into his,
tasting it
inhaling a perfume
that rose from between her breasts
gone from sweet and spicy
to drugging
as rare as the creature
before him.
And in a simple motion
his arms enfolded her,
drew her to his lap
and the biddies would have a field day
he was sure,
if they noticed this scene--
but that didn't matter.
She sighed, and rested her forehead against his,
murmured her name--Cassandra,
and asked his with her eyes.
Vincent, he murmured
before touching his mouth to hers again---
this time with a urgency---and purpose.
There was no rushing this---
the kissing was no mere appetizer
to be hurriedly consumed
in order to get to the next course.
The kiss was what there was........
and her hands went up into his hair,
caressing the scalp
trailing his face
brushing the stubble with her hand
making her skin what his was.
He savored the touch
drinking it in---
feeling it hit him
like 18 year old scotch
smooth and warming.
And then her hands
began to explore
the cords of his neck,
the muscles in his shoulders
trailing to his back
like an electric path.
Well, I never!
a biddy passing sniffs---
failing to notice who was caught
in flagrant delecto.
They look into to each others eyes
and burst into shared laughter
and it is ecstacy
to be nailed for normal.
He suggests a visit to his home--
and she considers for a moment.
Later......she says
her face aglow with a smile
with naughty written all over it.
The make out spot
by the stream
is thick with bushes
she says casually..
The path had been paved recently.
They pack up quickly
and he grins---
"Race you!" he says
taking off
her indignant gasp of "Cheater!"
ringing in his ears.
The spot is perfect---
fall has done her vegas show girl act
and the foilage is glowing gold and red.
The stream bubbles clear
and the air is sweet with mosses.
She arrives after him,
winded, and falls to the grass gasping.
He puts on the brakes,
swings the chair carefully
and lifts himself smoothly---
she watches intently---
this is how the body was sculpt then...
and he is on the grass with her,
waiting.
She considers him for a moment,
then reaches for the t shirt,
peeling it slowly off
and gasping in appreciation
at the elegant torso beneath.
She reaches for him
but he moves away,
and looks at her in expectation.
She flushes.
Turn about is fair play.
But when her fingers go to the shirt front,
he stops her.
He kisses her,
his fingers lightly undoing one button.
And it becomes a sweet ritual.
A button---
a kiss.
A button---
a caress.
And when the last button is loosed
he lowers his mouth to a creamy shoulder
and lightly tastes her skin
with a soft sigh,
slowly pushing back the fabric
like silk swathing something
precious and porcelain.
There is a wispy covering
over her breasts
and when his eyes rest there
warm and then hot
she feels the visual touch
and swallows hard
and the nipples
surge against the garment
puffy,
full,
swollen,
erect.
He watches this miracle
and his fingers trail down,
touch the sweet swell
and savor the tiny sigh
that escapes with her breath.
She reaches for him
brushes his nipples
with the edge of her nail
and he swallows hard.
She kisses his skin
taking her time
dallying when it seems
he enjoys one spot
more than the last.
It is an eternity-----
luscious,
encompassing
lips to skin
skin to heart
heart to pulse
and his passion
at being consumed
is matched
but her satisfaction
with his response.
He is awash with it,
but even so---
a new desire is born
a desire to fill her hunger
and when he touches her
reveling in all that is real to her
he hungers
for sweetness,
for the very well spring of her being
and so with shaking hands
he searches beneath the skirt
for the cotton cloth
sees her eyes go wide with consternation---
she is reluctant to accept
what he cannot share---
but his eyes draw her in, and down
and she understands
that this giving
will fill him as well.
The skirt bunches beneath her buttocks
and she leans back
her thighs open to his eye,
his touch,
his taste.
His hands travel her expertly
turning sigh to gasp
and when he gazes
at the subtle core of her
with something like reverence
her breath is stolen utterly.
Sweet man------
complex
sensual
and in the moment
that his mouth touches her
she is seared to the skin,
he is her lover
and there is no compromise is this---
no settling---------
She releases herself to every touch,
opens herself utterly
and is consumed
by the moment,
take by the man
fingers
lips
tongue
everywhere at once
and as the moment builds
inside her
she knows
that she will go home with him
to sleep nestled against his chest
and listen to his heart
and share one night---
or if the gods are kind, many
because he is a man
and she is the woman
who dared to kiss him
in broad daylight
one perfect indian summer day
in Mc Connell Park.
>>
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