exercise thursday
Very short today.
Post-Olympics, RPS
NC-17 but mostly by implication, Phelps/Lochte, again only by implication
8/28/2008 9:41 AM
“Coming Home”
The pool is tiny, he can cross it in four strokes. It’s not for swimming, really, not for his own swimming anyway, but it’s fun to think about friends coming over and splashing in it. He likes it because it’s miniature, the way girls like those little charms they hang off their phones in Japan and Beijing.
The view is really the best thing about the place, even though it’s got all kinds of luxuries he never dreamed of having. Like the ‘home theater’, with real movie theater seats and a wide screen. Again, more thoughts of friends, of his sisters and their kids and friends, of his mom coming over to watch movies and hang out, than for his own use.
But he definitely likes the view. It gives him a sense of being home, even though he’s just on the edge of realizing he’ll never truly be home again, there’s always from now on going to be some sense of unreality, of what am I doing here. At least, though, he can stand there and look at that view and feel like he’s on the same planet.
The weirdest thing now is being alone, really alone, and thank God for Herman. Without the big man stumping around the place, napping in the middle of a walkway, getting messy with his food in the kitchen, the music would echo too much.
It doesn’t matter if the bed is hard, or soft, or just right, at the moment. It’s a bed and he can sleep till the sun wakes him, or until his pup demands to be fed anyway. And when that chore is done he can go back and pillow dive again, if he feels like it. Though he usually doesn’t - there’s the TV to turn on, and news stories to read. Video games to play. Texts to send and receive, phone calls…
When it does get quiet, though, it’s not that bad. It can’t last, his body and mind won’t let it, but sometimes he can ride it, like a bubble, and look down inside and see only the things that he wants to. Fragments of bright memories that form a mosaic at the base of him. A sweep of cold blue, bisected with the warmth of a tanned arm slipped around his shoulder. Press of fingers around the back of his head, laughing eyes, a flickered glance that resets everything.
Hand moving down to his lap, there is privacy in this brief bubble of suspended time, privacy that allows everything else to fade for just a little while. Memory voices of a particular laugh, soft murmurs exchanging private jokes, smiles that answer each other a little too quickly. Fingers curl and close and drag with easy friction, find a rhythm, as natural as a well-practiced stroke. Sun-bleached blue eyes under sandy lashes, eyes that can smile, and never seem to look at him and see anything awkward, or dopey, or even fearsome. The well-remembered shape of a mouth. The gasp of breath hitching, bodies pressing. A tighter pull, a catch and twist, fingers that know things mama doesn’t need to know about self-exploring.
Everything is quiet except for the labor of breathing. Everything is peaceful apart from the rising urgency of touch and memory, half bitten lips and a sudden jerk of muscles, staccato, faltering. An arch and strain and fluid released to paint skin and clean sheets. Good thing there’s a washer and drier. Good thing there’s another nice new set in the closet.
Hands are washed, shower taken, phone finally reached for and speed-dial number pressed. The number of rings unconsciously counted as he walks out past the pool to take in that view again, that view that tells him he’s home, or some semblance of it. It’s as soothing as the voice that finally answers with a cheerful Jeah? and an audible grin.
“Hey, it’s me… you’ll never guess where I am…
8/28/2008 10:16 AM
Post-Olympics, RPS
NC-17 but mostly by implication, Phelps/Lochte, again only by implication
8/28/2008 9:41 AM
“Coming Home”
The pool is tiny, he can cross it in four strokes. It’s not for swimming, really, not for his own swimming anyway, but it’s fun to think about friends coming over and splashing in it. He likes it because it’s miniature, the way girls like those little charms they hang off their phones in Japan and Beijing.
The view is really the best thing about the place, even though it’s got all kinds of luxuries he never dreamed of having. Like the ‘home theater’, with real movie theater seats and a wide screen. Again, more thoughts of friends, of his sisters and their kids and friends, of his mom coming over to watch movies and hang out, than for his own use.
But he definitely likes the view. It gives him a sense of being home, even though he’s just on the edge of realizing he’ll never truly be home again, there’s always from now on going to be some sense of unreality, of what am I doing here. At least, though, he can stand there and look at that view and feel like he’s on the same planet.
The weirdest thing now is being alone, really alone, and thank God for Herman. Without the big man stumping around the place, napping in the middle of a walkway, getting messy with his food in the kitchen, the music would echo too much.
It doesn’t matter if the bed is hard, or soft, or just right, at the moment. It’s a bed and he can sleep till the sun wakes him, or until his pup demands to be fed anyway. And when that chore is done he can go back and pillow dive again, if he feels like it. Though he usually doesn’t - there’s the TV to turn on, and news stories to read. Video games to play. Texts to send and receive, phone calls…
When it does get quiet, though, it’s not that bad. It can’t last, his body and mind won’t let it, but sometimes he can ride it, like a bubble, and look down inside and see only the things that he wants to. Fragments of bright memories that form a mosaic at the base of him. A sweep of cold blue, bisected with the warmth of a tanned arm slipped around his shoulder. Press of fingers around the back of his head, laughing eyes, a flickered glance that resets everything.
Hand moving down to his lap, there is privacy in this brief bubble of suspended time, privacy that allows everything else to fade for just a little while. Memory voices of a particular laugh, soft murmurs exchanging private jokes, smiles that answer each other a little too quickly. Fingers curl and close and drag with easy friction, find a rhythm, as natural as a well-practiced stroke. Sun-bleached blue eyes under sandy lashes, eyes that can smile, and never seem to look at him and see anything awkward, or dopey, or even fearsome. The well-remembered shape of a mouth. The gasp of breath hitching, bodies pressing. A tighter pull, a catch and twist, fingers that know things mama doesn’t need to know about self-exploring.
Everything is quiet except for the labor of breathing. Everything is peaceful apart from the rising urgency of touch and memory, half bitten lips and a sudden jerk of muscles, staccato, faltering. An arch and strain and fluid released to paint skin and clean sheets. Good thing there’s a washer and drier. Good thing there’s another nice new set in the closet.
Hands are washed, shower taken, phone finally reached for and speed-dial number pressed. The number of rings unconsciously counted as he walks out past the pool to take in that view again, that view that tells him he’s home, or some semblance of it. It’s as soothing as the voice that finally answers with a cheerful Jeah? and an audible grin.
“Hey, it’s me… you’ll never guess where I am…
8/28/2008 10:16 AM