His finger tips lightly brushed her cheek slowly cupping her chin, his thumb gently lifting her face upwards, her lips a breath away from his chest, his neck; his pores, unshaven skin, strangely familiar as her senses instinctually awoke to her unconscious memories of him. While the idea of this moment had been percolating for years she was overwhelmed at the intensity of her complete inability to control her thoughts, her body, her primal reactions to his touch. Even more alarming was the ache that speared her gut and spread down her groin, through the top of her legs, tingling her knees; spreading up into her chest, behind her lungs, rising through her collarbones to her shoulders. An image flashed of her sons squeezing drops of food colouring into glass Mason jars filled with water, how they would patiently watch the chemicals creep into webs, observing until the intermingled muddiness consumed the tangled rainbow.
The ache continued seeping up through her neck and jaw, punctuating her checks with a sharp slap, while stabbing her heart and squeezing her breath. He lifted his other hand from her shoulder, fingers brushing a strand of hair, tracing her face, her chin now resting in the heart of his hands. Unwillingly her senses continued absorbing him; his lips, his nose, unchanged by the years, the jarring familiarity of a freckle. She had thought she had remembered his eyes, they had been seeing each other for over a week now, but that was across tables, rooms, distances. Time had spun silver through his hair and deepened creases, but had not diminished his lush, long eyelashes, which she had forgotten were so beautiful. It was this unknown known she remembers acknowledging first before drowning into his hazel sea.
Completely immobilized, the ache grew exponentially, painful, and she absurdly wondered; this must be what it feels like to gaze into the flesh of your own soul. These eyes were mine once, the crisp dark flecks, the colour intimate, and she was again paralyzingly astonished to have memories of these minutia that she did not know she kept, neatly wrapped, unnamed, unacknowledged. Waiting to burst.
She felt the ache erupting in the back of her throat, hitting the roof of her mouth, tasting iron, tasting fear. His lips touched hers, hesitatingly; her eyes shut, she smelled his spicy body wash, recognizing it as her husband’s preferred brand, and she felt him guide her chin more firmly. She sensed quiet, determined urgency. Their lips moved together effortlessly, seemingly remembering their own unique dance. He tasted like the coffee he had purchased before suggesting a walk across the bridge, for a better view, for old times’ sake; both apparently still fluent after decades in their unspoken language to understand the request masked the undertow of true intentions – stay longer, talk more, choose me.
The gentle pressure deepened, his tongue licked hers, a sharp memory exploding of high school afternoon make-out sessions when he tasted like Kraft dinner and ketchup. Is it possible to remember how someone tastes? The shape, the feel, the movement of their mouth, their tongue? Her final thought before lifting her hands up to his chest, pressing, opening her eyes, pulling her lips from his, gasping for breath; how could I not know that I remember all of him? This ache is us.
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