I loved blowing her. Today it was gardening. The little back yard. There's that butterfly bush growing up near the little storage closet where the back steps overhead lead to the second floor. It's an alcove and the perfect place to pin someone to the whitewashed door. Futz with her buttons, zipper, really claw her shorts off.
So that's what I did. I told her what was going to happen and she nodded. I kissed her mouth for luck and I put a hand on each thigh and dropped to my knees. Tilted my head forward, moved some hair and reached up with my tongue until I felt that little bunch to stay towards. The sweet and sour, the salt, the red heat pouring off her skin; it grew and filled up the entire world.
It didn't last too long. Maybe ten minutes and she flopped there against the house, growling my name under her breath. A rule is that if she doesn't say it, it never happens again. So it always happened. When I was done, my knees were red and white and indented with small pebbles and dust. They hurt. I was sweating so much. She had twisted her hand so thoroughly in my hair that it was tangled up there on her ring. She had pulled it throughout and my scalp felt like she had tried to rip it off. I didn't like when she did that, but she loved it. She didn't pull as hard after I told her. My forehead was on her belly, the very slight underside of it, coming around. I was spitting, reaching my fingers into the back of my mouth to catch hairs. I grabbed her shorts and wiped my mouth on them. I wanted her glasses to be crooked, but she didn't even have them on. Where were they?
We had bought these starts. Cucumbers and tomatoes. All we had to do was put them in. We had some chips and soda in the shade and we left all that shit out there. It was a product of the heat, new for that year, probably the first day you could blow someone outdoors and it was that time in our lives. I want to tell you a lot of my life has been like this, but that's not true. And she and I didn't last. We lived together, but that sometimes doesn't mean anything and actually speeds things towards their end. It did here.
Why it's important is that I know when I am very old, if I remember anything at all, if she's alive or dead, talks to me or not, I'll remember this one time. The dog barking on the street was the first thing that brought me back into this world. The next was her freed hand grabbing my wrist and pulling my arm up, like she could pull me to my feet by my arm and I stood up. Both knees popped and dirt fell from them. I don't think it's significant just itself; I made someone come, was obsessed with it then. There are other things to do. It isn't pride. But I have never talked to god and I know that some sort of trance took me over a river and in this way I told her about everything that was there. I don't know if she understood a word, but I was speaking.
