Short Story by Robin Rydenhov
Wild Dandelion Fields - Chapter 3
The afternoon was bathing in a sea of light. The path that showed our visitors to the porch looked like a flowing stream of melted metal , gravel and stone looked to be wrapped in crispy golden leaves. The crickets that crossed, wore shell in aluminum to protect themselves from the steaming river in the heat wave , like astronauts in space suits on Mars.
I sat and watched their struggle from the front porch, squinted , so the sun’s blade would not stick me in the eyes , it cut me, however in the skin , leaving a trail of dead skin , like splinters under the saw blades.
As a person I was then careful, in good preparation for the most, but not prepared for the sun, it always managed to notice me . My arms looked like firewood , hard , angular , brown and dry as tinder .
The wind caressed chilly and left a perfume basket filled with the smells of poppies , turpentine and baked bread that concur in the bass , rhythm and melody on the veranda steps. Furthermore , it spread my tone , the smell of burnt skin. The air was moist yet pleasant , my tongue tasted iron and was swollen, it was better to be cautious , I thought, stood up and shoved the old rocking chair in the shade. The chair scraped against the floor and disturbed the otherwise quiet moment it was.
Over Central Europe the sun was of a hazard, harvested human life on the land and drove the townspeople crazy. The only people who thrived in the heat was our leaf cacti. We had no interest in plants , nor to care for them. Flowers should be wild was our thought . But when we rented the house we got the cacti in the bargain. They differed from the bushes or grass , they looked different , like people. Above all , they had the characteristic that they took care of themselves and did not need our care … which was appreciated .
I scratched the windowsill as if it were the neck of a cat . Its elastic skin with soft fur , I massaged it and seemed to hear a sound of pleasure from the front porch, it warmed me from the inside as if the sun was in my chest. The windowsills dry deep blue color was torn up and crumbled over the floor, ancient cork oak came, or appeared was a better description as it was entertaining to follow the maze of tree rings.
The porches planks were old, the painting peeled like bark stripped by a predator who sharpened their claws .
Me and Ann appreciated the passage of time, there was something charming with the used porch. Here we had lived like other lived, time flowed on more than one direction, it formed a kind of basic eternity . What we shared permeated our bodies and painted walls , floor and ceiling with a mood of tranquility and perfectness . Life was then in good balance sitting in our rocking chair.
Ann and I never saw ourselves as a traditional couple , but we were , in my opinion , the following states ;
I gave and she took.
Anns poinion was that our relationship has not restricted ourselves as individuals, that we spiritually grew in each other’s company and it was a sexless love, platonic such … she was partly right but also wrong. The tanks were free but we practiced togetherness which none of us had any objection against.
This thought was disturbed by her clattering of crockery in the kitchen which was at the other end of the house. A composition of carpenter music.
I closed my eyes and found myself at a cafe where the waiters fussed for customers, I ears- eavesdropping on an American couple vacationing but thanked finally for my coffee , handsome in Hungarian, ” Köszönöm szépen ” , when my interest waned for the tourists’ conversation … “Everything is just amazing with this city ” … Ann preferred to be inside at this time of day , she was warm-blooded, unlike me whose hands and feet were of icy character.
My desire was awakened by the thought of her bodily presence , a glimpse of her backs hill that sloped down towards the plump butt , like the dunes which stretch marks look like streaks of salt in the sand . She was shouting at me from the kitchen but I chose not to respond , the sound of her voice was a figure of vibrations that echoed between the walls through the house.
This melody I did not want to disturb , my concerns were that it would cease. Got up from the chair but dizzy from the heat, the body tottered and fell down into a open window.
Rested my tired eyes in the room between the porch and the kitchen , waited , she would come out to ask the question she had not asked. As if I directed it all, she appeared in the doorway and like a skilled actress Ann looks surprised to see me , though she knew all along that I expected her, she knew me well .
Ann leaned against the door frame, looked me in the eye , smiled , rested one hand on her hip, pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows slightly to let me go swimming in her eyes. Then she started dancing like the most colorful bird my imagination could paint , she stretched her neck, bared its plumage and moved firmly, gracefully and securely over the tile floor.
The herringbone pattern created small ways for her as she playfully jumped , did not broke my gaze, stood at last on one leg and flapped with the wings to keep her balance , then Ann turned into an elegant long-legged bird in my misty eyes. The way she chose led her into my arms , she smelled nectarine around the lips , and cumin from the armpits , at a glance my love looked like a dancer from an spicy kingdom.
The sweat on my chest she rubbed with the palm of her hand , she ran her fingers through my hair and I closed my eyes , melting in the heat … until our bodies became one , as an amorphous mass of an old candle on the windowsills bed .