sense(s)

The warmth on her face told her, before she opened her eyes, morning. She lay there, a mass of confused blankets and twisted sheet, feeling comfortably trapped inside a cocoon of sleep. But the smell of coffee forced her eyes open and into focus on the white ceiling with it's hairline crack running the length of their bedroom. The flapping shade announced the breeze carrying with it that summer-is-here scent of cut grass. She sat up. Rubbed her eyes and leaned across the small open space to the window to flip the shade up, exposing raw morning sun. Squinting, she watched the seventeen year old boy her husband would pay mow the grass. His stride long, purposeful, relaxed. He was already sweating, she noticed. The air clung to her skin making her want to peel off the t-shirt she slept in. She sat there. Staring at nothing and everything.

Then he was there. Behind her. Around her. Everywhere. She had smelled his approach when he lifted his foot to the last step. It grew stronger as he approached. She turned, accepted the coffee with a smile and drank. Long and desperately thirsty despite the heat of the cup. She watched him over the rim. They embraced a quick good morning. She, feeling the crispness of his shirt through her chin.

She was on the porch now, waving. Blowing kisses. Shielding her eyes from the sun. Watching as he backed down the long driveway. Watching for at least minutes until he was gone. The boy, or young adult she supposed, was rinsing grass clippings off the patio with the hose. He tilted his head back to drink and saw her. Nodding a hello, she turned back into the kitchen.

It was cooler here. Shaded by the huge maple. Insulated by the porch. She sat at the table and pressed her hot cheek to it's cold, smooth surface. She could feel her heart pounding in her ears. She closed her eyes, soaking the cool into a deep well.

The kitchen door swung open indifferently. She didn't move. He stood there, waiting. She could smell him, like hot stones under her feet. Her toes curled involuntarily. He moved close enough for her to feel the temperature change around her. Light warmth on her skin like an iron left on. She didn't open her eyes but reached for him. He pressed his lips to her forehead, soft, wet, appealing; she felt his exhalation on her hair.

With her eyes closed she felt a complete disconnection from the world around her. She could feel the cold table under her back and thighs, feel the clinging air on her breasts, feel the velvet universe between her legs. Feel the explosion, like a million tiny Hollywood flashbulbs, in the pit of her stomach.