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Jul. 24th, 2005 10:51 pmSpike grins quietly to himself. The words hell of a nice shower keep racing back and forth in his mind; he looks over at Beth. She's lying on her stomach on the bed reading the Fodor's Guide to the Solar System that he gave her ages ago. There's a towel draped over her bottom and the curve of her lower back is just... well, hell, it's worth staring at.
He loves the way it dips in and then back up, and she's muscular and wiry. He can see the outlines of her ribs as she lies there reading, occasionally laughing quietly to herself. There are things in that book she's seen now, he realizes, and that's pretty damn cool.
Love you, love you, love you.
(She's reading about Galileo City.)
He wanders into the bathroom for a minute and comes out with some lotion, some body lotion, and it smells like strawberries. Who knows where the hell it came from but it's there, and he sits next to her again and pours out some of the lotion onto his hands, then warms it.
And then he rubs it on her back: from the base of her spine up to her neck; from the small of her back up over her shoulderblades. He watches, mesmerized, as the lotion sinks in to her water-heated skin a drop or three or just a little bit at a time. His hands warm her and caress her and rub lotion into her muscles. Gently, always gently because it's Beth. It's Beth, and she deserves the most special treatment in the whole fucking universe. The whole of it.
Between going and staying the day wavers,
in love with its own transparency.
The circular afternoon is now a bay
where the world in stillness rocks.
All is visible and all elusive,
all is near and can't be touched.
No.
That's a different poem. This poem: this beauty, this woman, this angel lying here: he can touch her.
He can touch her.
She looks back at him and smiles, and his heart melts and he doesn't take his hands off her back. He never wants to move them. He wants this moment to last forever and for always.
For always.
For always, for her, for him. For the late-afternoon sunlight streaming in, for the heat of her skin from the shower, for the lotion on his hands and on her back.
For the smile on her face.
He loves the way it dips in and then back up, and she's muscular and wiry. He can see the outlines of her ribs as she lies there reading, occasionally laughing quietly to herself. There are things in that book she's seen now, he realizes, and that's pretty damn cool.
Love you, love you, love you.
(She's reading about Galileo City.)
He wanders into the bathroom for a minute and comes out with some lotion, some body lotion, and it smells like strawberries. Who knows where the hell it came from but it's there, and he sits next to her again and pours out some of the lotion onto his hands, then warms it.
And then he rubs it on her back: from the base of her spine up to her neck; from the small of her back up over her shoulderblades. He watches, mesmerized, as the lotion sinks in to her water-heated skin a drop or three or just a little bit at a time. His hands warm her and caress her and rub lotion into her muscles. Gently, always gently because it's Beth. It's Beth, and she deserves the most special treatment in the whole fucking universe. The whole of it.
Between going and staying the day wavers,
in love with its own transparency.
The circular afternoon is now a bay
where the world in stillness rocks.
All is visible and all elusive,
all is near and can't be touched.
No.
That's a different poem. This poem: this beauty, this woman, this angel lying here: he can touch her.
He can touch her.
She looks back at him and smiles, and his heart melts and he doesn't take his hands off her back. He never wants to move them. He wants this moment to last forever and for always.
For always.
For always, for her, for him. For the late-afternoon sunlight streaming in, for the heat of her skin from the shower, for the lotion on his hands and on her back.
For the smile on her face.
