by Jove Belle

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Copyright © 2006 by Jove Belle. All Rights Reserved.

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“Absolutely.” I say this with as much courage as I can manage. It’s too late to back out, especially since this was my idea. At least I think it was my idea. My brain is a little foggy when you are near, the scent of you pulls me in and intoxicates me. Before I can change my mind I push the car door open and step out into the night.

You hastily kill the engine and pull up the emergency brake. “Wait for me.” You’re out the door and at my side before I can take a step. “Ready?”

Am I ready? Of course not! This is not a good idea and I can’t stop myself. I’m willing to do just about anything to prolong the time I spend with you. “Sure. Let’s go.” Amazingly, my voice is level, even confident. I embark on a night of disorderly conduct with bravado. False bravado, but bravado none-the-less.

We reach the gate and peer between the bars. The wrought iron fence is at least seven feet tall. I decide it’s now or never and take a deep breath. “I think we can make it.”

You arch one eyebrow and grin. “You want to go first?”

I choke down my instinctual response of “Hell, yes!” I want to go first because I know it will impress you. More than that, however, I’m scared to death that I will slip and come crashing to the ground, forever branding me a clumsy idiot in your eyes. My fear dictates my response as I sweep my arm toward the fence and smile dangerously, hoping to provoke you. “After you.”

In response, you jump and grab the top of the fence. Effortlessly you swing your foot onto the handle of the gate and, using the metal lock box as a foothold, you push yourself up until you are standing. There you pause to evaluate the easiest way to get down on the other side. The power and confidence in your movements make my heart beat a little faster. You hold the position a moment or two longer than is really necessary and I’m sure it’s an invitation - for what, I don’t know. I stuff my hands deep into the safety of my pockets. Finally, you throw your leg over the top and drop down on the other side. “Yes!” you exclaim triumphantly. “Your turn.”

I say a small prayer that I won’t get stuck on top or fall on my ass in front of you, then I throw myself at the gate. I’m up and over quickly, landing with a quiet thud on the padded surface next to you. “Now what?”

We take inventory of our options. There is a slide, a small jungle gym, a couple of undersized tables with those impossible round stools, and a ball pit. In unison we both announce, “Ball pit!”

I climb through the round pipe, a tight fit for an adult, into the mesh enclosure. The croquet size plastic balls scramble about until I am settled into place with my legs stretched out in front of me. You crawl over to the other side and sit so that we face each other, our legs obscured by red, blue, green and yellow. The canvas bottom sags under the weight of two adults, and I struggle against gravity and physics to keep my legs from touching yours. The magnetic pull of your eyes robs my ability to deliver playful, yet meaningful, banter. Tension creeps into the silence and crackles in the cool night air as I search for something clever to say. You charge into the lull before me.

“I don’t want you to get married,” you blurt out with a hint of sadness, perhaps even desperation, in your eyes.

“Why?” I think I know why, but I still need you to tell me. I am on unfamiliar ground, in serious need of a road map. What started out as gently circling butterflies in my stomach two weeks ago has turned into a riotous, clamoring swarm. I want so much to be charming, to say the right things, but the winged parade is interfering. Once again I question what I’m doing here, sitting in a ball pit at one o’clock in the morning.

After all, I am engaged and I’m way past pretending my attraction to you is purely innocent. If you were a man, it never would have come to this point. I wouldn’t have gone with you that first night, two weeks ago when you asked me out for dinner. And I wouldn’t have said yes when you approached me earlier today, that cocky smile of yours temporarily replaced by an uncertain, timid grin as you asked, “Do you like poetry?”

Do I like poetry? No, not really. But for you, I could. Hell, for you I could like cooked carrots and Republicans. “Why?” I asked, unsure of the right answer.

“I wrote some poems that I’d like you to read...if you want to.” You fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, standing straight before me, rather than leaning against the wall with your typical, cool nonchalance.

“Of course I want to.” Because you are a woman, I surrendered myself over to your gravitational pull.

And now, here I am, up to my waist in plastic balls, trying to ignore the battling emotions stampeding through me. My mother’s voice rings out in my head, telling me to run far and fast. This infatuation will only lead to no good. An ‘A’ ticket to hell. I know better than to indulge in something like that. Am I willing to risk everything, including eternal damnation, for one fleeting moment?

The troop of pixies dancing full tilt boogie on my libido scream, “Hell, yes! It’s worth it.” One look in your hazel eyes and I’m done for. I know that if opportunity knocks, I will rip the door off the hinges to get to you. I have no idea what I’ll do with you once I have you, but I’m damn well going to find out.

You turn your face back to me and smile hesitantly. The midnight sky is crisp and quiet and I can see goose bumps forming on your arms. I want to ask if you’re cold, but I know that the matching set on my arms isn’t because of the temperature.

I inch forward and ask the question again. “Why?” This time I nudge you with my foot. You still haven’t told me you’re gay. But I know. Okay, realistically I hope. My gaydar has never been too good and for a moment I’m afraid I’ve misread your intentions. The thought makes my heart stop then it gallops off at breakneck speed.

You captivate me with a deep, imploring stare, but before I can close the gap between us, you turn your head and mumble, “Never mind.”

“Come on.” I push a little harder, wanting you to offer vocal clarity and definition to what is happening between us. Is this a date? I don’t know, but it sure feels like it. I want to scream, “Tell me what we’re doing!” Instead I say as calmly as possible, “Why shouldn’t I get married?”

You shrug, refusing to meet my eyes again. “I just don’t like him.”

I ignore the fact that you’ve never really met him, that you know nothing about him. I’m thrilling from the close proximity to you. A little slip and I could be on top of you, pressed up against you, lost inside of you. I hold myself rigidly still even though I know you, too, are wishing for one little slip.

“What’s not to like?” I toy with one of the plastic balls and then toss it to you. “He’s a nice guy.”

You catch the ball easily and drop it back onto the heap. “Okay, I don’t like him with you.”

My heart is pounding its way out of my mouth and you still won’t meet my eyes. At this moment, I certainly do not feel like a future wife. “Then I guess I won’t get married.” Did I really say that? At one o’clock in the morning, sitting in a children’s ball pit at the local fast food place, with a woman I barely know, but want to know much, much better, did I really just announce that I wouldn’t get married? Holy crap. Reservations have been made, deposits have been paid, rings have been purchased. The hint of a promise from you and I’m ready to abandon my life. What the hell?

“Really?” This time you raise your head and look at me. We are both struggling to keep the tone light, but there is so much more and we both know it.

I finger the diamond on my left hand. I don’t want to take my words back, but I’m scared of what they mean. We have ventured into dangerous territory. I sidestep the question instead. “Well, I really want to go to Europe.” The one part of the wedding that I’ve actually enjoyed planning is the honeymoon.

I want you to tell me that you’ll take me there instead, I picture us riding on the train from city to city holding hands and kissing in the tunnels. I want to dance with you in Paris under the moonlight, a thought that, until a few moments ago, was too sticky sweet, cliché romantic for me to have even considered doing it with him. In my mind, I picture us, pressed close together, swirling around on a sidewalk beneath the Eiffel Tower. There would be no dimly lit dance club, only the bold public announcement that I am in love, in love, in love!

In love? Where did that come from? I’m engaged to someone else, for Christ’s sake. I’m quite certain nice girls do not have these thoughts.

You tear your eyes away from mine. “Oh. I wouldn’t want you to miss Europe.”

That’s it. With one sentence I’ve visibly broken your heart. Here I am, trying desperately to flirt with you and I manage to screw up. It’s no wonder, really. I’m straight, engaged to a man and not even comfortable thinking the word lesbian, let alone dyke. Yet all I want is to touch your face with my fingertips and pull your cinnamon-flavored mouth to mine.

Tomorrow morning I will go to church with my fiancé and his family and try to act normal. All I’ve thought about for two weeks is your eyes, your lips, your fingertips, your voice. Last time I was with him, I pictured your face floating above me. I even whispered your name. Now, with you so close and my desires so clear in my mind, how can I ever return to that?

I want to chase the distress from your eyes. I want to beg you to take me somewhere, anywhere, instead of him. I would happily abandon my plans for Europe to go with you to the local mini-mart. Instead I grasp a safe, yet flimsy substitute and ask, “You promised me poetry. Do I get to hear it?” That was the reason for this meeting after all.

With the topic of marriage safely dodged, you dig into your pocket and pull out two carefully folded sheets of paper. Your hand trembles as you extend your scripted heart into the void between us. Cautiously I take it from you and start to open it.

“Stop.” Your urgent command brings my curious fingers to an abrupt halt. “Read it later. When you’re alone.”

Really? All your nonchalance proves to be false? I want you to read it to me, to hear your voice share your carefully crafted words. “Okay.” What else can I say?

We talk idly about unimportant things, both of us skirting dangerous topics. Nothing more is said about marriage or honeymoons. My ring glints in the moonlight - a constant reminder of the socially constructed boundaries inhibiting our budding relationship.

I relax one leg, letting it slide close enough to brush against yours. The charge of bare skin whisper-close causes you to jump reflexively. Nervous laughter bubbles to the surface as you gulp, “This isn’t working.”

You edge your way to the exit and I panic. I place my hand on your shoulder, stopping your retreat. Your head is lowered and I wait until you bring your eyes to mine. I fall into you, sinking deeper and deeper until I’m not sure if I’ll ever reach the surface. I kick off hard, gulping air as I break the surface. “I think it’s working fine.” The tremors in my voice betray my fear that you will continue your departure. Paralysis seizes control of my motor skills, making it impossible for me to move. I am suspended, waiting for you. My brain charges forward, screaming and pleading with you not to leave, demanding my body to move, do something to keep you here.

You raise your hand to my face and run one finger along my jaw line. My fate is galvanized in a touch as your palm returns to cup my cheek. You move painfully slow, allowing me time and opportunity to say no and break contact. I lean my face into your caress and close my eyes. The pleading in my mind has escalated to a deafening roar.

And then you kiss me and the battle for heaven and hell is over. The angels howl and the demons cry, and I hear none of it. Battles are won and lost in that brief touch of your lips against mine and none of it matters. I have found salvation, my true north, in that one quiet moment. Our eyes connect and I am home.

The End

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