work in progress

She presses herself into his back, snuggling into his armpit. The fading aroma of his cologne is there, if she wants it, and she breathes deeply, enjoying how it mixes with his own scent; bolstered by it, and warm.

There's comfort there, not sex, as she wraps her legs around his, drawing them together, fitting him like the the bathrobe he wears, loose but warm. And comfortable. The next best thing to skin.

She wants to speak but does not do so: the moment is not yet upon them. Instead she slides slowly upwards so that her mouth nestles behind his ear and her hot breath tantalises, starts to melt his apparent indifference.

Her hand comes up and follows the absent-minded habit that she learned in childhood as she would play with her own hair; taking a lock between her fingers and stroking the end with her thumb. Soothing. Rhythmic. Simple. Her eyes are soft in focus as they stare at his head, at him: this man in her life. And it is as though she is trying to learn all she can about him, just by watching the back of his head, his ear, his turned-away shape.

"How long has it been?" she asks, not needing an answer, for none know better than her.

"How long will it be?" she wonders and hopes she will never learn that answer. For now, at least.

Her heart leaps. For a second, panic overwhelms her: "Is he...?Could he...?Does he...?"

"Is she ready? Does she want this? Now, with him?"

"It's such a big step!"

The voices of a multitude of never-quite dared, but always hoped-for dreams shout unanimously, instantly.

She feels something being placed into her hands and she knows she is ready, she is willing.

But. What is this? Cold, hard, a little heavy?

No. But that is what she was expecting.

This is light, soft, warm.

She moves to open her eyes but he anticipates this and brushes them closed with his lips.

"Do you love me?" he asks.

Inwardly she screams with disgust: "How can he ask that? After all they've been through. After all she's given him? She makes to move away; he's playing stupid games and she wants no part of them.

"Please..." he whispers and the entreaty in his voice pulls her away from herself and back to him, to his needs....

"Yes" she whispers, a quiver in her voice.

"Then promise you'll listen to my words without interruption."

"I promise".

"And ... open your eyes."

She does so. And in her hands she sees a flowering dandelion.

Consternation flares within, but for just one second. She had promised to listen and she will see where it takes her.

He begins to speak, haltingly, raspingly:

"This...this is something very special to me. It..."

He pauses so soon; lost for words. Only to find them, racing ahead of him and he falls over them in his haste to catch up: "represen, I, I".

He starts again, more ponderousome, but a little more controlled.

" I want to give you something. Something deep and precious. Something that...that I rarely give and maybe...maybe have never consciously, ...willingly, sought to give another. I do not know what kind of gift it truly is although I know I have received it many times from others. And sometimes...unwittingly, I have abused it. And that is fatal. For one small scratch, one speck of dirt perhaps, and it is ruined forever. It is more delicate than this flower and one gust of wind could make it burst asunder. And there is only one of it in the whole world.

"Do you want it?"

She hears his words and feels a little perplexed, a little concerned. "Something so fragile that it must be kept away from the wind, a speck of dirt? Impossible!"

She pauses because she cannot speak, her mind awhirl with possibilities. "This is not Love of which he speaks", she thinks.

His eyes are fixed on her face, flitting around her delicate features, imploring.

She thinks of the dandelion and notices how it is now a little heavier, warmer than before. She thinks it is not so gentle as it at first seemed and so she says "Yes".

He continues:

"So it is delicate and needs care, but it is a joy too. One that will bring you peace of mind wherever you are, whenever you need it; or even if you do not. It is always with you and will become yours although you must share it with others lucky enough to recieve it. Its care is a joint responsibility, but yours alone to upkeep and protect.

"Do you want it?"

Yet warmer still, and heavier, the dandelion flower seems to take on a life of its own. She peers at it in the dark and wonders if she was mistaken if, in fact, it really is a small animal. A kitten perhaps?

"Yes"

"The burden of carrying this is great. You can never forget it, never forget about it, for that is one sure way to break it. How else you care for it, I nor anyone else can say exactly; it is its own master in many ways. It will make you doubt things you have always taken for granted, when asked questions you would rather not hear. It will make you make choices that you may regret for the rest of your life, else risk breaking it.

"Do you want it?"

The flower is now a ball, made of lead. The heat it gives off close to unbearable. She thinks: "This is not what I want. This is not what anyone wants, surely?"

She looks at him and opens her lips to speak, to beg for a hint, an answer as to what she should do.

Her lips are stayed by his finger, gently, so gently resting on them half-open, but now voiceless.

It is their eyes that talk. They meet and share the memories of all their time together; bad as well as good. The times when they would not speak, too mad and hurting to let out their screwed-up feelings until one or the other would break and they would rush to resolve their petty differences with the longing to erase the pain and never repeat whatever it was that had made them argue; until the next time.

The silly stupid time when she covered his best suit in cream and then licked it off, "Dare me at your peril!".

The day when her father died and the grey months that followed.

The silence hung thick and heavy around them, slowly weighing them down.

"Yes"

"This is the key to everything I have and everything I am. Everything. There are no half-measures, it is an absolute. With it you command me, like a genie bound to its master and with good judgement you will have unlimited power over me. You will have me there to fight for you, perhaps even die for you, if the occasion demands. You will have me sacrifice the soul I have, not mine to give, without a moment's hesitation, not caring about the eternity of damnable consequence I know I shall face.

"Do you want it?"

The ball was a rock, crushing her. The fire burned her deep, eating her alive.

She mustered her remaining strength and, forcing each gasping breath to be a word, a plea for the love he had for her, broke her promise.

"What is it?"