One Fall Afternoon

Update: I'm no longer using the "Continue reading..." links since Blogger allows me to flag the whole blog as adults-only. June 3, 2008

Update: Reuploaded the third image in this series, which I didn't know had a broken link. March 12, 2008.

I guess if you were to ask me what my ideal date would be, it wouldn't be very far from this. A walk in Central Park on a crisp fall afternoon. We approach a lake and I playfully suggest she take me on a boat ride. She paddles us out to the middle of the lake, where she grins and hauls in the paddles, and we proceed to drift. We share stories and laugh, we talk about our mutual friends, the ones that set us up on this date. In a lull, she takes my hands. They feel so small in hers. She leans in and gazes at me with clear blue eyes of hers and I feel my breath slow and stop and I'm at a loss for words. She darts in quickly for a kiss, and, as our lips part, she smiles at me, her eyes twinkling, and I sit there, mouth slightly agape, and she leans in again for a longer, deeper kiss. The only sound is the lapping of ripples against the sides of our boat.

We stop for a warm cup of tea in a café somewhere, a quiet out-of-the-way place away from the big-city hustle-and-bustle. We walk some more, we window shop, we visit an art exhibit. I tell her I'm tired and so we lie down on a bed of autumn leaves. I press my small body against hers and her long arm encircles me. Our fingers touch lightly. She sings quietly to me, a popular ballad, but jokingly, and we laugh. I like the way her laughter hums on my body.

She walks me home in the early evening light, my hand in hers. Our plans didn't include dinner, she has someplace else to be. I start to feel slightly jealous. It's silly I know, on a first date, but I can't help it. We stop outside the door to my small apartment, she leans over to kiss me, as I stammer an invitation for her to come upstairs. I feel unsure, a little shocked at myself. I'm really not that kind of boy. She grins and picks me up lightly in her arms. I barely remember her carrying me inside.


Later, I lie on my bed, watching her, as she pulls on her jeans. "Call me?" I ask her. "Sorry I can't stay longer," she smiles. She easily straddles my small bed between her long legs, leans over, takes my face in one hand, and kisses me deeply. Then I hear her heavy footfalls cross my one-room apartment and the door open and shut, followed by the thuds of a woman's step as she strides down the landing. Exhausted, still breathless from the force of her last kiss, I fall asleep.