Upon His Return

His back was to me when I walked into the room and at first I didn't notice him among the others but, just as I lifted my eyes to the group, he turned his head and time was suspended for a moment as our eyes met, and then broke away, as if the glance had been casual. But of course it had been casual. He'd been gone for so long and we'd not kept touch. I hadn't asked about him and had no idea when he was planning to return, if he ever planned to return. During the years that had passed, I'd gotten over my fascination with him; whole months went by without a thought of him. Well, perhaps not entire months...

Someone laughed and called my name, and I crossed the crowded room to join his group. Fine....good....no heart thumping or palms sweating...I smiled a cool smile and spoke to the one who had called my name, spoke about nonsense, and laughed and gave all my attention over to the distraction of inane conversation while, all the while, I sensed his presence a mere breath behind me, but he was ignoring me and that was a good thing because it meant there would be no test, no pressure. It had been so difficult, all those years ago, to stay apart, to act as if there was no magic, to hide the emotion in our eyes. It had been so difficult that he'd left the country, and I'd not followed him, and the healing and life-building without his constant presence had proceeded.

His deep and mellow baritone voice rose as he regaled his listeners with stories of fishing excursions in Africa. I turned toward him and, without thought, joined the conversation. "Oh....I've always wanted to fish in Kenya," I said, and my heart stopped, then kick-started, and I caught my breath when his dark eyes turned in my direction. I rubbed my now-sweaty palms against my slacks and smiled at him. "Welcome back," I said, and I offered my hand. His hand enveloped mine as we shook, mine with its long fingers and sweaty palm dwarfed in his strength and warmth, his skin dusky against mine. I noticed the small burls of dark hair curling on the back of his fingers, and then, quickly, my hand was my own and I felt its aloneness for a bit.

The room was clearing, and I offered my good-byes and left. I walked through the lobby toward the elevator, and decided to stop by the lobby bar for a small nightcap. There was no reason for me to hurry to my room, and I was feeling a bit melancholy and really not in the mood to be in my room, alone with my thoughts. In my mind ran the film, over and over, of the moment he turned toward me earlier. His hair was still clipped tight against his head and was a bit grayer now than before, but his back was straight and shoulders strong under his suit jacket. His height made him stand out in any crowd and he could easily see me over the head of the shorter man who was next to him. Life had been good to him. I ordered a scotch straight and nursed it for awhile at a small table at the rear, and I listened to the conversations around me. I always felt alone, even in a crowded room such as this, and I couldn't relate to the players around me, posturing and preening to outdo one another.

I finished my drink with a sigh, paid the tab, and took the elevator to the upper floor and my room. I fumbled in my pocket for the key card and felt the touch on my elbow that turned me from my door, and there he was, looking down into my eyes. "It's good to see you," he said, and then I laid my hand on his arm and he captured it under his hand and we turned down the hall, and I followed him, my heart pounding in my ears.

The light in his room was dim and the air was cool, the soft hum of the air conditioner the only sound besides the thumping of my heart. I didn't say a word. I didn't know what to say, where to start, if once I started I would never stop, if it would open the old yearning, if perhaps that is what I should do. I didn't know what to do, what was right, where his mind was, and what words would invite danger, and so I said nothing. Perhaps he was thinking the same things, his mind racing with confusion, because he didn't speak, either. He slid his jacket over his broad shoulders and tossed it into a chair, and then he did the same with mine. He grasped my hand and pulled me to lie down next to him on the bed and we laid there in silence. My head spun with a multitude of emotions and thoughts and they flew down the length of my arm and through my hand to his, and his fingers tightened around mine. The heat seemed unbearable between us; it filled the space between our bodies, yet only our hands touched, melded together, and his thoughts and emotions passed to me, too. It had always been that way, even across the distance of a room, over a conference table, amidst throngs of businessmen and women, but we had never touched this way before, and the touch opened a universe of new dimensions of emotion.

I was aroused beyond measure, and I could see the evidence of his arousal, too, and yet we simply lay together, side by side, hands clasped tightly in the cool darkness, silently sharing the togetherness we had so long denied ourselves.