A Tale of Two Lovebirds
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It was a long trip, a very long trip; no, an extremely tedious and excruciatingly long trip. It wasn't so much sitting beside the huge, balding man who took up his entire chair, part of yours (even with the arm-rest in the way) and a good portion of the aisle; nor the fact that you forgot to bring enough cash to buy a snack leaving you more than a little hungry; nor even the rancid air created by the jock in the fifth row who apparently ate three bowls of bean chili dip and washed it down with a gallon of gin.
No the trip was long because every second that passed He was on your mind. Was it be normal that every second that passed found you gazing out the window at the passing signs wishing beyond hope that the next second would be the one to find you in his arms? It seemed like everything reminded you of your boyfriend. From the couple constantly kissing on your right, to the Hugh Grant movie playing on the above television screens, to the beating of your heart you could feel pulsing through your body.
It was hard for you not to feel sad even if you were on your way to seeing him right then. You couldn't forget that every mile crossed and every landmark noticed would also be the same sights bringing you away from him on visit's end. Yet even through the sadness and future longing you held joy, giddiness even, at the prospect of him holding you in his arms, your head rested firmly into his chest as you squeezed him with a bear hug standing there in the bus terminal. But you waited, unable to sleep, your head pressed to the cold glass; the humming of the bus' engine as a soft reminder that time would pass ever so slowly.
Friday morning found you waking up from dreams of love and romance to the smell of fresh bacon sizzling beautifully on a distant stove-top. Tom must be making breakfast for work. You lay in bed, a silent yawn and cat-like stretch the only movements you care to make before settling under the warm covers. Thinking back to the end of your trip you grin a wonderful homage to the cat-who-ate-the-canary grin.
It happened exactly like you wanted it to happen, actually even better. Getting off the bus, your legs stiff from the limited tossing they were permitted to do, you found your beau standing right at the door not even bothering to get out of the way of the passengers obviously ticked at such youthful insolence. You would have given your left pinky to see the ecstatic smile that splashed across his face when his searching gaze alighted upon your face. It was the type of countenance that left no room for doubt: he is bursting with delight to see me. You hurried down the steps and darted across the two feet into his arms almost knocking him over in your enthusiasm. He recovered wasting no time returning your greeting. He smelled good. It wasn't cologne nor any discernable odor, simply Tom. The smelled seem to emanate from his bridled euphoria and mixed with his glee so large that it bordered on despair. In the minute or two you both stood there for all intense and purposes one being, it overcame you and permeated your own soul. Could this be Love?
Yet it did not end there. The embrace ended yes but he was no less eager to see you and you saw something in his eyes, a spark of rapture perhaps before he uttered one of the most embarrassing and touching phrases he's ever said. Flaying his arms and spinning around he looked at the freidns and family in the waiting area and proclaimed in a loud and passionate voice: "This," and here he pause for dramatic effect making sure every eye was on the beauty he encircled with his left arm, "Is my girlfriend." It wasn't obnoxious or flamboyant, merely a fact spoken with authority and assurance and which commanded obedience from all those who heard it. No one there would ever forget the angel who got off the bus. The rest of the time spent getting back to his place was gravy and passed with the swiftness and efficiency of greased lighting. His hand never left yours save once when it brushed a strand of hair from your face so he could kiss you gently unimpeded.
But that was last night. The peaceful night's sleep did nothing to dull the memory and indeed strengthened it and enriched it like a sweet grape turned into invigorating wine. Shortly Tom entered the room, fully dressed for work yet with a plate of eggs, buttered bagels and of course, crisp bacon. Never did such a standard meal seem so superb nor exquisite for you suddenly remembered how hungry you were despite the snack provided the night before. A glass of orange juice offered stood no chance of survival as you downed it in three full gulps.
If the trip down had passed at a snails half-pace then the day stood still and if Tom hadn't come home when he did you surely would have tripled checked the clock to make sure time hadn't stood still. As it was, it seemed as if an eternity had passed since Tom had kissed you good-bye that morning for work making sure to give you a not-so-light swat across the ass. When he did return it was as if you were seeing your young husband return after a season in a war without hope of a homecoming. Lips met necks, hands met hips and the silent apartment was filled with labored breathing. Who could tell how much time you two stood at the threshold, door open, making-out fiercely like dogs in heat. If it weren't for a neighbors passing by both of you could have passed the afternoon away right there. Laughing at the sheer insanity of the situation, you both stop and tried, not without effort, to regain some kind of composure even though you both felt totally flustered and let's face it, horny beyond belief.
For the few short hours before nightfall there was no shortage of laughter and mirth. It would you two were made for each other; the joking and ribbing, dancing and meals, all seemed to flow naturally from one to the other without awkward pause or uncomfortable interlude. It was no surprise when after the stars (what few of them poke their heads out in the Toronto night sky) you dragged him into the bathroom for a sensual shower, and sensual it was. Throughout the evening, and underlying every word or action, was an undercurrent of lust. You wanted him and there was no doubt he wanted you too, if not more, if that were even possible. So in the shower, though the application of soap and shampoo were delicate, the arousal was anything but imperceptible. Not only because of Tom's obvious excitement barometer but because of your flush skin hotter than the water beating, unwavering, unto your milky skin.
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