I still remember the way the sound of your running feet always announced your arrival – Jinx, still a puppy then, following close at your heels. You always told me he reminded you of me, the way he sat so quietly, observing the world around him with his gray eyes and still, silent ways. But i always thought our unspoken need to be around you was what made us kindred spirits, this half-Wolf, half -Husky beast and i.
Every day my heart beat faster at the sound of your running feet and your voice calling out my name just before you appear, shirtless, in the doorway – your long, straight brown hair wild and tangled down your back, face flushed and smiling at me as i move about the kitchen in the white summer dress you like. I run a quick, self-conscious hand through my short-cropped hair as you kick off your shoes and grab a chair – insisting i sit down while you make us coffee.
We don’t say much, these moments when you stop by on your way home from work, the house empty except for the two of us.
We drink coffee in silence, each looking into a pair of eyes that are made shy by the simple clarity of what we both see there…
Your eyes are the color of warm earth, huge and almond-shaped; they are utterly guileless. I’ve never met anyone with eyes like that before. Eyes like a child.
You ask me if i’ll brush your hair.
Silently i fetch the boar-bristle brush from the bedroom, feeling those eyes on me as i move across the room, walking slowly around to the back of your chair…i can feel your breath catch as i place my hand softly on the top of your head, slowly running it down the lengths…
Touching you is unlike touching anybody else in the world – you are unlike anybody else in the world.
And i want to kiss you.
The small house in the backwoods of Tennessee seems to be holding its breath in the quiet of the afternoon.
I run my brush down your hair, a hand on your shoulder – faint electricity snaps under the bristles, and your body seems to be vibrating under my fingertips…
Eyes catch, and hold.
Lips smile, fingertips touch briefly – and the brush makes an autumn-colored river of your hair.
To Eric, with love – RIP.