Flash Fiction #119: September Moon

Jason Sandford

Jason Sandford is a reporter, writer, blogger and photographer interested in all things Asheville.

1

Taking the stairs two at a time, they’d been silent. Silent, as they faced one another in the dusty cabin bedroom. No words, but unspoken – would there be a turning back?

Facing her, holding hands, he pulled her to him as he sat on the bed’s edge. She stood still, inside the space of his legs spread wide, but could feel her entire body vibrating. Their eyes adjusted to the inky darkness as the silvery September moon struck through.

Both knew this time would come. Wasn’t it the reason the girls had set up the dinner in the first place? The girls, best friends forever, ready to celebrate their return-to-school-year reunion, had set the date. What better way for two best girlfriends to revel than with two boys in a rustic hideaway?

Rustic – a euphemism for no working toilet and no electricity, but that was nothing a walk in the woods and a few candles couldn’t cure. The foursome served up cheap cabernet from a carafe and feasted on spaghetti and crusty bread, all the while telling stories of friendship. Ribbing. Flirting. Somebody rolled a joint. All the while, they laughed the laugh of unencumbered youth. It was a heady night.

Conversation quieting and dishes forgotten, they paired up and moved away.

Upstairs, the two held back, each waiting for the other. Not a word was spoken. Their gaze, unbroken. Each knew the other’s thoughts, complete. This is our time.

He released her interlocked fingers and moved his palms to her hips, working each index finger through fabric and beneath the waistband of her panties. He circled the line to the small of her back, then frontward. He undid the button of her jeans, already loose on her slender frame.

As he pushed the faded denim down, he leaned to the left and his head brushed her thigh, casual as mountain laurel on a high pass. She swayed, stepped out, then back, inside the V of his legs.

His eyes back in hers, he forced himself to move slowly down her front, releasing each catch of the cotton blouse deliberately. After the last button slid through the last thin slit, she dropped her shoulders and the shirt fell away.

She felt him on her stomach. Their scents mixed, with the cabernet breath hanging heavy in the air, heavy as honeysuckle. She moved ever closer, then pulled the edges of his T-shirt up, over and off. Taking his face in her hands, she paused, then moved to caress his smooth, broad shoulders. I could lean on these shoulders, she thought.

She crouched down to his waist and felt, her fingers those of a careful weaver undoing a sacred knot. She slipped the belt away. Up again, her hair fell into his face, remindful of the gentlest waterfall.

He couldn’t hold back any longer. He clutched her to him, falling back onto last winter’s old quilt, pillowy and frayed. Nose to nape. Lashes to lips. They kissed.

She strained away from the embrace as the bedsprings creaked. They listened, heard a rhythmic thumping, and laughed. She fell into him, and they rolled. The mattress complained again, loudly.

There would be no turning back.