There’s a comfortable layer of sweat on my nose and cheeks that catches the breeze at opportune moments. It sends a smile across my face, which sends a smile across yours, but it’s too hot to touch, so we sit more than a few inches away from each other, staring out over the rooftops, in a trance of disbelief. For a moment, I become transfixed on a bird, building a nest in a nearby church steeple. As I watch, my head fills with stories (imagining the eggs she’ll lay and the patience she’ll have as she warms them and cares for them just thinking of what they’ll be), and you stand up, kiss my forehead and disappear.
I lean back into my wicker loveseat and imagine that we’re 35 and our 2 kids are playing together nicely, for the moment, and we’re doing our best to enjoy the few calm moments.
You return with two bottles of cold beer and pop them open with your teeth. I cringe, but am far too grateful to say a word. You see my restraint and smile as you hand me the bottle.
“To Sundays.” Clink. Sip. Pause.
I stay sitting, and you stay standing, and then you kiss me, softly. You pull away, but I kiss you back, just a little harder, but then it becomes you kissing me and me kissing you and the situation devolves and our quiet moment dissolves and the heat and the sweat is all we crave and want so we fumble pathetically to put our beers on the table and start using our hands for more interesting things.