the coldest day at vík (an excerpt) (a draft)

With one swift, impulsive, yet gentle, move, he reached his right hand behind my head and slowly guided it to rest on his shoulder. I cried into his jacket, but not passionately, for the impulse to cry passed quickly.

A minute later, with awkward sharpness, I raised my head again, my sheepish smile wordlessly apologizing, and turned my gaze back towards the cold sea.

We sat there for a few more moments, moments filled with hesitation, as we listened to the waves loudly lapping and licking at the shore, and let the sight of the oncoming rain clouds churning up the sky fill our vision.

Off in the peripheral distanc a cliff jutted out hazily, bravely, into the waves.

I felt my own hesitation pull itself taut. I clenched my hands on the last inhalation--my fists filled with lovely black sand.

I turned my head sharply to see that he was already looking at me. I exhaled.

Before I could inhale again, his face was directly in front of mine, lips parted. Hesitation. My eyes were half-closed in anticipation.

My own lips had opened. I whispered, "Why?"

We met.

His nose was cold. I could feel the dampness on both our faces as we held them there, dew on the grass. There was stillness. There was power. There was the sweetness only cold, fresh water could provide after a trek through a desert.

There was warmth in the kiss, I am sure, but a freshly-sparked piece of kindling is not likely to keep anyone warm with a storm on the way. It's hard to look someone straight in both eyes when your noses are side by side.

"We should get back," he said. He didn't ever look to the sky to indicate a reason. His eyes kept asking me something. I had to fight the urge to tug the corner of my lips upward so that I could answer him with my own look.

"We probably should." His eyes were bluish-gray, today. The ocean.

As he helped me up, I made sure to hang on to a small fistful of sand. I quickly stuffed my hand into the pocket of my rain jacket and let it fall in.



Back at the [hostel? house?], he walked me to my room. Into my room. I unzipped my jacket and he took it off, like a gentleman. He hung it on the coat rack and followed suit with his own. Taking his gentle time, deliberate but gentle, no hesitation. He slowly moved until he was directly in front of me, his kind head tilted down towards mine. The patron saint making his visage known to the faithful follower, the angel Gabriel come to tell the Virgin Mary about her Christ-child.

I laid my open palm on his sweatered chest, too high for the heart but enough to feel half its beating.

A slow embrace, my other hand on his side, his right hand on the small of my small back, his left on top of the heart hand, long fingers easily shielding it from air, wings over a nest, heat of skin on skin. It was less of an embrace; I began sinking into him. His sweater still smelled fresh and laundered. His hair, still damp, still salty.

"Warm my bones," I said.

The door was closed. In a stunning turn of events, Gabriel made love to Mary, his back, his broad shoulders seemingly stretched over her trembling body, like wings. Saint and follower praying to each other, all through the afternoon, into the evening. The hymns were beautiful, the service was sad. It was the first time I didn't want to close my eyes. The urge before, to nurture, and the urge now, to give and gain pleasure, should have conflicted and given him a look of pain--I should know, I've been pitied before.

Instead, we made love to each other. We made love and I lost count.

We could only lie there afterwards, skins now damp with perspiration. The cold eventually crept into the room and forced us to pull the blankets up to our necks. He somehow fell asleep on his side--one arm curled up underneath his pillow, the other draped over my waist. I stared at the white-washed ceiling, turned golden in the dim light, and let the impulse to smile overtake me. I turned my head to face his and closed my eyes.

In my main fantasy, the rain outside turned to snow and the whole house was snowed in. I get up and get the black sand from my coat pocket. I climb back into bed, sprinkle all the sand over our covered bodies, and pull the blankets and covers over our heads. We wake, and fall asleep, and wake, and sleep, and in between, we kiss, and we touch. We sleep, curled in each others' arms, bodies fit perfectly, naked, together.

A thousand years pass. The archaeologists dig out the house and find this room, like an Egyptian tomb. The sand was magical, and our bodies are perfectly preserved, together. A sarcophogus of sheets. Morbid, but yes, this is still there.

All I can remember thinking, before I drifted off to sleep, was that I should be sad, but my only coherent thought is, This is the happiest I've ever been. This is the happiest I've ever been. This is the happiest I've ever been.