Am I defined by the shape of your smile or the curious manner in which you hide your hands behind your back? The sky vaults above us, inclusive in its limitless embrace. You pour more Merlot into my glass filling it to the top yet only half fill your own. Your eyes warm me more than my first sip. Those eyes, grey, sometimes blue, hold me firmer than last nights curled fist. Afterwards, we had turned our bodies into curious spoons; your arm was thrown across my abdomen, your knees firm against my buttocks.
Outside the river flows over pebbles, a rushing of water cascading soft but inexorably. It is the stream of life, it passes this way but once. A heron stands silhouetted against the moon. Somewhere distant a vixen screeches. It is a sound like nails being raked across a chalkboard or teeth dragged along a metal fork. I feel the short hairs stand up on the nape of my neck.
It had been such a perfect day, drinking sangria in the park, feeding the regal swans and feeling as though we could swim like dolphins from the pond to the ocean before kissing like nothing could fall not even the dusk that settled dark over our heads. The evening bent toward midnight then shimmied on to morning. We held hands as we walked the length of the Thames as the riverside lights went out one after the other.
If ever there was a time before the time after then it was that day, that perfect day. Memories are built on such days so we may not only treasure them but enlarge and elevate them to a fond recall greater than the events themselves.
I watch you now, your eyelids closed, your mouth slightly parted, your hand placed beneath the pillow that holds your head with its torrent of black hair on its cushioned comfort. The duvet tucked under your arm as though hiding your modesty, your cocoa coloured breast hidden from view.
I roll onto my back and close my eyes. Even in sleep, your image haunts me.
Russell Cuts the Corn From The Brewers Whiskers.