sex
Face down in his hand, her beautiful mouth is really warm. He can see past her forehead to her staring wide-open, palm reader eyes. Nothing is hidden. I should help myself to you, and I will, he thinks, but for now I will lie here floating underneath you forever, having followed you here like you were the pied piper, or better yet, Stradivarius’s twin sister, a maker not of violins, but of oboes or tympani, equipped with deluxe features.
They take turns paying attention to things. He is an igneous rock formation, a long bright tooth forming in the darkness of her mouth. He is the softest thing imaginable, softer than air; so is she. They trace water lilies in the softness of each other’s skin with their fingertips. Now it’s his turn and she wants to kiss his mouth, but he is determined to kiss her other mouth, to kiss her with the deepest kisses, a stream of kisses, allusions to every mythic person, place or thing he can imagine in his growing excitement. He’s completely out of it. Meanwhile, she is a bodhisattva, generous, patient, contemplating her own release.
Look -- now they have turned into an airplane flying at altitude, from which position they can look down and see the town bustling with its little matchbox cars and ant people. Is the black box recording all this? The black box is nowhere in sight. Instead of a black box there’s a lunchbox, empty except for the fond memory of bananas, crackers, cheese and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. They are having lunch on the moon. Of course they are on the moon, jumping in the low gravity, jumping up and down in front of the camera for the benefit of all the people of earth.
They both know what's coming. They try to hold onto their horses, but they can’t. Here it comes they think (or don’t) in the instant before they finally just let go and stick their hands up in the air and scream at the top of their lungs like a couple of little kids on a big roller coaster going down.