new

Sylvie, in her boat-neck sailor stripe blouse, pale polished suit, heels, pushed the sunglasses down from the top of her head when the elevator stopped at the fifth floor. A woman in a t-shirt and leggings got on, and the elevator went the rest of the way down.

It was quiet for the hour, just before 7:30 on a hectic morning. With traffic, Sylvie thought, she should have plenty of time to drive to her office out of the city. And she would be driving out of the traffic. And then, and then? Oh, just making it through today was the first step.

Sylvie walked past the lobby, not bothering to check out. She had left the key in the room, as she planned to avoid the same faces she had seen the day before. But now she recognized no one. Trays rolled past from the restaurant–the cling of glasses, the bustling kitchen voices , the scent of coffee elevating Sylvie’s mood, the hum of purpose she had chosen.

The morning was cool, damp in the garage as she started her car and eased out onto the empty streets. So strange, it seemed, as she turned toward the expressway, switching on the radio.

“It’s a beautiful Saturday morning.”

Sylvie pulled off to the side of the road, checking her calendar. Yes, yes, it really was the weekend already. Jean-Paul had said he was leaving Friday evening. And the city was still empty so early. In a flash, Sylvie turned the car back to the hotel, yes, she could keep her room tonight, and tomorrow. The city, and the morning, were hers. She picked up her suitcase, and headed upstairs to change.

Jeans, the boatneck, boots, the white raincoat pulled tight. Yes, this was it, she thought, as she happily rode back down and sat in the bar for coffee, the news. It felt so luxurious, the sun, coffee, a new lens, and time.

summer nights

“Tell me more, tell me more, did you get very far?”

June comes, and it is as though the world is painted pink. Or rose. We wear those glasses, and everything seems to be in its place, only everything changes. Everything is suddenly wonderful–or so it seems. A phone rings, a siren sounds, and we answer, running far far through the air, drifting off to sea, toward all that seems true and bright and there.

Kissing in moonlight, in starlight, in sunlight, by the river, by the ocean, in bed the next day.

Summer romances seem so real, but fall comes, and we realize that they were only dreams.

Dreams of sand, dreams of sun. Dreams of windows down and windblown hair.

Dreams of hair and hands and arms, lips, necks, shoulders, waists pulled closer. Dreams of cocks, panties sticking. Dreams of seeing a dream, walking with a dream, riding a dream long into the night, sweet dream sweat dripping…

But not for too long; for summer goes nearly as quickly as it comes.

The intensity of it tricks us, and makes summer all seem more real.

But soon the days grow shorter, cooler… and the kisses become less urgent, less tangible, and before long, kisses are only words on a page.

And we wake up, a little sad, perhaps. A little tearful for some time… until life returns, until we return…

…until we return, a little wiser, a little sad, a little sorry, a little glad in spite of it all…

Until we return to life, and life returns to us. Are we the same now? Is life the same now? We return–imperfect us: summer lovers, summer drifters–back here, back into the rich, real life we never really left… the rich, real life that we hoped for all along.