The late September sun beat down on my aching back. Betty, the team forman, yelled break time. I reached for one last apple to fill my bag and stepped backward down the ladder. I hung my bag over the bin and gently let the apples cascade to the bottom. Sandy, my friend and fellow adventurer, and I sat down. We searched the ground for a decent windfall and crunched into the overripe sweetness of a fallen apple. Michael sat down next to me. Instantly, the pheromones flew between us as giddy as the bees drinking the sweetness of those fallen apples. I was speechless, Sandy talked to him.
***
All six of us sat at the table eating spaghetti, Michael, his brothers, Sandy and I. Michael sat across from me, I admired his coal black curls and his brown eyes lured me into the earth and to new beginnings. A drop of sauce hung on his goatee and I yearned to lick it off.
***
He sat next to me on the sofa. I loved the closeness of this family; all the brothers squeezed into this tiny space. The blue light of the TV illuminated their cheerful faces. Full from dinner and wine, I drifted. My body jolted, and he reached for my hand. The wicked witch and I quivered. “I’m melting.”
***
360 miles away, by candlelight, I read his letters. Joni Mitchell sang “Michael from mountains, Go where you will go to, Know that I will know you, Someday I will know you very well.” "I’m melting."
***
He met me at the bus stop. We ran through the icy February streets to his State Street apartment. As we entered the lobby he said, “Check this out.” We rode the rickety elevator to the second floor. It clanged and reverberated, or was it my heart. We opened the door and fell onto the only furniture that could hold two. “I’m melting.”
***
His hand became butterflies as they traversed the country from my ankles to my neck. “I’m melting.”
***
The August heat enveloped me, as the bus opened its doors. Once again, he was waiting for me. This time we walked through the summer heat and downtown to his apartment on Munjoy Hill. The promenade was litter infested and the lighthouse was closed. He had the perfect view of the Portland Harbor. With the help of a bookshelf, we climbed through the bathroom skylight onto the roof. I nestled into his arms as the stars came out. “I’m melting.”
***
He went to Haystack and I moved to Baltimore.
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Nice stone-slipping series of vignettes.
ReplyDeleteNice pull-the-rug-out-from-under-the-reader ending! And have no doubt: the writer has earned that drop-dead close and the reader is charmed more than disconcerted.
It seems to me you waste a chance to turn the screws a little. All those 'I'm melting's' set up an inevitable and ironic "I melted" at the right spot, but you never pull that trigger.
Stone-skipping makes more sense than stone-slipping!
ReplyDeleteI did have a puddle on the floor in the last paragraph. It went something like this: He went to Haystack and I moved to Baltimore. A puddle of tears formed on the floor.
ReplyDeleteThen I thought that gave too much away so dropped it.
I agree about the sentence you mopped up. Maybe 'I melted' after "Baltimore"? Or that could be overkill too. I do like that drop-dead finish.
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