Silent DJ
Vintage Hollywood night. You’re in our cabin bathroom doing your makeup. I’m already wiped.
I might need your help with my suspenders, I propose, though I could probably do it myself.
I love suspenders, you say.
The almost weightless hem of your black-and-white houndstooth dress lifts under my fingers.
You ask if I want you to wait for me, but I say it’s alright.
I walk over by myself in the dark, try not to clothesline myself on the caution tape stretched out across the way or trip on the rustic log barrier near the paved road — on the first night, I thought it was an exposed PVC pipe.
You win third in the Jack & Jill contest. We’re so busy gossiping, we almost miss it. I give you a huge hug when you come back with your trophy. You did so good. Really fooled ‘em.
After midnight I find you, our headphones glowing red. Outside, it is ice cold, the Cascade Mountains clad in translucent valley fog, evergreens, ancient and adolescent, exalting an eternal sky.
You step close, pull my left arm over your shoulder. Take my right hand, your body against mine. Your thigh between my thighs. Step forward, move my whole body with yours.
The line of dance, orienting lines. Glass windows, signal mirror. You, the arrow; I, the needle. Surprise yourself when your palm presses against my chest. I’m so sorry.
I am laughing.
The next morning I’m eating over-easy eggs by the empty wood-burning stove in the quiet dark. You tell me I can sit in your pull-out bed if I like. I say it’s alright, even though that sounds nice. If I get too comfy, I might fall asleep.
You say, That would be alright, too.
