The third of my weekend Tiva trifecta. If you missed the other two, check my profile for Convergence of the Twain and Relucesco. Symbiosis 12 is nearly ready and shall make an appearance soon. Until then, please enjoy...
In the Knowing
She's not supposed to know that he forsakes the razor on lazy days. Though the ideals of certain colloquialisms still elude her, she now possesses a tangible concept of rough and ready. It's a shadow of relaxed sexiness, a divine texture beneath her fingers, against her thighs.
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He's not supposed to know that she loathes mouthwash. The pungent taste will not begin her day and he has no complaint. Watching her achieve an obsessive cleanliness with a brisk toothbrush, he recognizes the flick and swirl of her wrist, has felt that motion working on him in an obscenely glorious manner.
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She's not supposed to know that he sings in the shower. It's a rich, soothing tone, reverberating between the glass barrier and the ceramic tiles, coasting unhurried through the open door. It's often a collage of punk, swing and arena rock and the concert always ends too soon.
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He's not supposed to know that she hums while cooking. It's a trait she borrowed from her mother, who believed that food is lifeless on the plate unless it's been nurtured by song. The tunes are as intricate as they are spontaneous, crafted from her imagination and infused into his eggs.
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She's not supposed to know that he likes to watch her unravel. Though he champions unusual positions, locations and supplies, what throws him off the ledge is studying her own dive; the expression, the sounds and the twitches excite him as much as what she does in kind.
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He's not supposed to know that she craves oranges at midnight. The sweet tang mirrors the indulges that moonlight enhances. But she's become more intrigued by his use of the fruit, the way its essence is dripped onto her skin. He savors it slowly beneath her heavy gaze. And she hungers.
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She's not supposed to know how his mother's death affects him. The annual pilgrimage to a barren grave had always been made alone. Until now, when she crouches beside him as a year's worth of renewed loss is released into manicured grass. The image carved into stone smiles upon them as if she knows.
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He's not supposed to know the contents of her nightmares. Government shrinks possess the outline but were spared the details. He is not. By his solemn request, she fills in the gaps better left to ignorance and he holds the knowledge with careful hands. Despite the pain, he's humbled by the trust.
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She's not supposed to know that he's built a mental altar to her. But she remembers his willingness to sacrifice himself to it, to reclaim her life or join her in death. And though she may seek to tear it down, his devotion has secured a strong foundation that feeds the daily worship.
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He's not supposed to know that she loves him more than her homeland. Her fondest memories have become intrinsically linked with his presence and the country that produced him has converted her into one who can see the splendor and not seek the advantage. And she feasts upon him because he is beautiful and he is home.
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They're not supposed to know such intimacy, both the physical pursuit and the emotional investment not common for flighty people with histories of avoiding constancy. But the parts of them that flee have rooted into the fertile ground they've tilled over years. And they know.