Honey and the Moon

The morning sun was seeping through the flimsy maroon curtains; his watch alarm was beeping in the typical, slightly pestering, tone; a variety of birds were singing their morning tunes, more pleasant than the metronome of the alarm.

Their bodies were intertwined, although starting to sweat under the equatorial morning sun they didn’t want to stop touching, skin to skin. Hers, milky colored, full of soft curves, glowing like the moon. His, honey-tinged, with taught muscles, warming in the morning sun.

They began to stir and somehow became further engulfed in one another’s bodies. Her nose fit perfectly in the crux of his arm, where it miraculously smelled of coconut water and the ocean. They kissed. His mouth smoky and sweet, remnants of the night before. His right leg reached over her and his arms pulled her in, closer, closer. She buried her face between his chest and arm, sighing with pleasure and contentment.

Her mind shuttered back to the night before, her heart laden. Reliving their conversation: her fear and his earnestness. Past lovers haunted her heart with doubt, a fear that he was like other men, looking for fun, not wholly caring for her. She knew in her stomach – the place that distinguishes lies from truth instantly if you feel closely enough – that he wasn’t one of those men. She could tell in his eyes, where his heart was on display so openly, that he possessed the type of kindness that was built on self-awareness and exuded utter strength of character. Men like that know what they want and are unafraid of it.

The night before, in the midst of the smoke and lighter flashes, she let her fearful heart drive the conversation to doubt and nervousness. She was leaving the next day, only for 2 days, to climb a mountain, both proverbial and very real. She had no plans to return to la playa, to him. She craved his permission, the validation that he wanted her to come back. But despite his youth he understood that to trap a woman with words, to encase her and control her emotions, was an unspeakable crime; he knew she had to be free, open to follow her desires, whatever they may be.

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“Where you going after la montaña?” he let gravity pull him closer her, as she leaned against his 1980’s coupe, each hand wrapped around the flesh of her hips, strong and gentle.

She kissed him, folding her arms around his neck pressing her hips, belly, chest into his. “I don’t know yet… I was thinking of going to the Caribbean. But I could also come back here. What do you think?”

He pulled away a few inches, lips pressed together, brows ever-so slightly gathered inward, “Hmm… You not decided?”

They met eyes, searching for some clarity in the darkened parking lot of the recently closed beach bar. “Should I come back? I don’t want to interrupt your life…” Her head fell, forehead leaning lightly against his; slightly embarrassed by the question, the needing of permission, the waiting for him to decide for her; a strong and independent woman fearful of the possibility of rejection.

He pulled away further this time, hips still magnetically pressing together, his eyebrows gathered more tightly this time and his hands lifted from her hips, “Does it look like you are interrupting my life?” gesturing outward, as if suggesting that the dark and barren parking lot was in fact his life.

Stuttering, surprised by the force in his voice, she replied, “I… I don’t know… I’m not sure what your life normally is like.”

“No. You’re not interrupting my life.” He avoided her eyes, lowered his head so that his brow touched her lips. His voice was soft, “But is okay if you decide not come back. I understand.”

Shocked at his body language, and the simple admission of his feelings. She kissed him, her hands on his cheeks, thumbs stroking his bearded jawline, a successful attempt to look older, “But I do want to come back! I just want to make sure you want me to come back too… I was scared you might not want me to… I’m sorry.”

Leaning his weight back into her – hips, belly, chest – his deep brown eyes focused on her face, soft in the corners, studying the forest of her eyes, the point of her nose, and the small freckles that danced on her cheeks. Fixated on her features, his rough thumbs gently and slowly brushed her eyebrows.

“Are my eyebrows looking crazy?”

“I love them,” examining each one before tenderly pressing his lips against them, right then left. Expressing more love than she thought someone could ever have towards the entirety of her being, he possessed for her two simple eyebrows.


As the memory concluded the morning sun speckled light on their entangled bodies, she nuzzled further into his body. He pulled her deeply into his chest, as if attempting to merge together. Engulfed, she released the whole of her body to gravity, to him.




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