A Year in Prose

The thought is like a fever, creeping through my skin changing the world around me from something cold and lonely to a room on fire. The thought is vivid, consuming, transporting. It’s a vision, a bit of foresight, a line of foreshadowing but in a good way.

You are sitting in the recliner, smiling gently as you read a letter your friend from the coast just sent. The heat of summer is crawling through the windows, and we beat it off with fans and iced tea and nakedness. The record player is gently blowing cooling music like the wind over us. You mumble something to me, and I nod in agreement, strolling gently to place my chin on your shoulder and read over you. You turn your head and kiss my warm cheek, which brings a wide grin across my face. An idea seizes me, and I place my arms around you, pull you up from your comfort, and we move into an impromptu dance. The steps are awkward and unplanned and perfect and beautiful. You kiss me on my forehead and spin me as you let go and move into the kitchen. You want to start preparing dinner, but I protest, wordlessly pulling you to the bedroom to the beat of the music.

The images fade into the dark, smearing into puddles of light and happiness and then nothingness. It’s like a recurring dream. It’s calling and pulling and begging for me to run faster, but I can only stand still, frozen in the present, banging at the glass wall to let me through.