2.28.22

Lightning struck and half the city fell to darkness. The streetlights stand in shadow, and the cars that creep through ebony city streets light the profile of her face. Eyes closed, her forehead against my cheek. The engine purrs and the vehicle we shelter in shudders around us. 

I think briefly of what those passing by might see. I think of them seeing the two of us, wrapped up in tender moments of affection. For an instant, there is a fear of being caught. There is the terror, well-known, well-loved, well-trained into my bones that urges me to be swallowed by its bite. 

But then headlights cast a heavenly glow across her features as they pass by. They illuminate her flowing hair, they highlight the way her brows curve, the swoop of her cheek, the soft lines that define her jaw. The fear is itself consumed by an urge to climb the center console and curl up in her lap. 

The night returns as the cars escape out of sight, and the street is left empty, save for us, hiding from the rain, from the coming week, within an idling Ford. My thumb runs along her cheekbone, down her jaw, across her chin. Soft. She is soft. 

I commit this moment to memory. I think of how I might describe the way the lights color her face in this cool, moon-like glow, how they accent her temple, her brow, her cheek, her jaw. How they cast the rest of her face in this shadow that does not hide her entirely away in darkness. 

I think of how I might describe the warmth pouring from the car’s vents, the heat that keeps me comfortable, that bids me to relax. I think of the forestry smell of her hair. I think of the safety her presence envelopes me in, and how it feels so much so like being held.

Physical affection never truly reigned supreme in the household I found myself growing within. It became outlawed the day they read my journal and discovered the queer feelings I held for my female friend. I found myself craving touch all my life. I found myself fearing being caught indulging.

I might disappear somewhere, if they saw. Wake up in a camp intended to convert me. 

It is strange, then, that all my adolescent years, I never once found myself able to indulge in a love language I cherished, and I never once knew that safety felt like the arms of your girlfriend wrapped around you in the middle of the night. 

I think I know how I might describe this moment. 

Light flushes her skin as cars creep past us, hiding from the rain and from the weekend’s end within an idling Ford that purrs on the side of the road. Headlights illuminate the flowing strands of hair akin to the changing of seasons, neither blonde, neither mahogany, but a beautiful mix of both. My thumb runs along her cheek, pronounced in the fading light of passing vehicles. I run it down her jawline, across her chin, relish in the softness she emanates. She smells of my childhood forest, the one above the world, towering high on the Rockies and bursting with pine, and oak, and the smell of home. Tomorrow is Monday, and we must return to our weekly duties of work. We must find it in ourselves to separate. We must open that door and let her step out into the rain, find her way to her own bed. We must.

But not yet. Not now. We sit in the cherished safety, the welcome comfort, and I admire her for a moment more.