Sweater Weather
John's leaning out of his seat, leaning way into Rodney's space and kissing his cold cheeks and his chapsticked lips, making out with him in the front seat of the Wagoneer like they're teenagers, getting his fingers in Rodney's windblown hair and groping under Rodney's fleece where it's warm warm warm.
They'd spent an hour or so sitting close on a bench in town, clutching paper cups of coffee against the chill gray of early October, and while Rodney watched the few sailboats out in the sound, fast bright triangles of color, and the ferry making its trundling way toward the Cape, and the clouds racing across the sky west to east, John watched Rodney: the curve of his cheek, still smooth from when he'd shaved that morning, and the wind ruffling the short hairs over his ear, and the edge of his smile. Rodney's safety-orange pullover was zipped right up to his chin, and John hooked his elbow through Rodney's and bumped his knee and told him that at least he never had to worry about losing Rodney in the fog, and he gave Rodney the last of his coffee, even though Rodney's cup was approximately three and a half times bigger than his, and he couldn't think of anywhere he'd rather be than right there.
And they got back in the Wagoneer probably thirty minutes ago, only they somehow never made it out of the A&P parking lot, and now Rodney's moaning enthusiastically into John's mouth, and John's doing his very best to crawl into Rodney's lap.
If John took his tongue out of Rodney's mouth long enough to let him talk, Rodney might say something like, "What's gotten into you?" He doesn't, though; what he does is knead Rodney's thigh while they kiss and kiss and pant into each other's mouths and kiss some more; what he does is squeeze the muscle hard at the same time as he licks up Rodney's flushed cheek, and Rodney makes a hot, endearing noise somewhere between a gasp and a giggle that resonates deep in John's belly, and John unzips Rodney's collar and tucks his forehead against Rodney's warm neck and laughs too, and he's hard, and he's happy, and he feels a hell of a lot younger than his gray hairs and his busted knee-he feels like they could do this for hours, like they could come and come and then start all over again. And maybe-as long as no one chases them out of the parking lot-maybe they will.