One Night, On The Deck By: H. Lee, hlear8@yahoo.com Spoilers: none Rated: G Summary: My first story in the second person. (I think that’s what this style is called, anyway.) Hope it reads okay. *** You don’t know what happens when this feeling comes over you sometimes. This restlessness, not so much a nervous but a lethargic one. It’s not that anything is wrong, exactly. More like out-of-sorts, loose ends flailing around inside as your body empties from the top and fills from the bottom, your heavy, leaden feet the only things tying your floating head to the ground. It would be easier, might be persuaded to go away, to leave you in peace, if there was some identifiable itch to scratch, some crimped muscle to stretch in order to alleviate the thrum of tension within. You would run if you weren’t so tired, walk if you were more ambitious. Not to any place in particular – not like you know any place in the area anyway – but somewhere away from the hotel room that is hot and stifled despite the air conditioning. Away from the demon of discontent that lurks ever beneath. You sit outside on the balcony now, the shabby, wrap-around ledge that made your second-story room fifty dollars more expensive than his, on the first floor. He insisted you take it, offered to make up the difference himself if the budget wouldn’t cover it; he doesn’t like you to stay at ground level. The higher you go, the lower the incidence of break-ins, he says. Third floor and up is best, but two will do. He’s in your room now, watching a soccer game, sprawled out over your bed so that when you crawl under the covers tonight the sheets and pillowcase will smell of him, his shampoo, his deodorant, his skin, until you sob at how easy it is to pretend he is there with you. He neither adds to the restlessness nor assuages it, only watched steadily as you sighed and paced the room, tugged the screen door open and flung yourself outside to escape the walls closing in around you. They are thin as paper those walls, muffle nothing of the noise generated by the amorous couple in the room beside you, you could fight them back with no more than a stiff breath. It is the gnawing edginess climbing the plaster like ivy you know you can’t defeat. And there is nothing he can do, not yet. He watches you, and he knows. Squeezing the banister doesn’t help, and the rusted chairs are of no comfort. In frustration that is dim and distant, vaguely apathetic, you drop to the concrete and wrap your arms around your knees, stare unseeingly at the view to the left of the building. It is only here, down here, that the breeze can reach you through the wrought iron of the rail, past the darkened back doors of the rooms to the east. And though the wind touches it, that something growing inside you, it doesn’t remove it, cannot bend, much less break, it. Tension stalks up your legs to your belly, creeps through a trapdoor into your mind, so that you feel a shout could release it but are afraid of what might happen if you open your mouth. Like a backlog of carbon in a car’s engine, powder in a keg waiting for ignition, the energy sits thick and brooding in your chest. There must be some outlet, physical or creative, nervous or sexual, into which it would fit, though for your life you couldn’t figure out what. It is both paralyzing and stimulating, this urge – like a hunger, a thirst, a loneliness that refuses to be fulfilled. Just when you think you’ll go crazy for want of crisp air, for the uninspiring scenery looming in the distance, the screen rolls open and he treads barefoot onto the deck. You don’t look up, can’t smile or greet him. Your soul splits in two, half desperate for his presence, his warmth, his attention, half rebelling at the idea of making conversation, of trying to explain this dissatisfaction that invades your being every so often for no apparent reason and with no apparent cure. Silently, he steps behind you, brushes idly at the ground with his foot, and sits. You don’t have to look to know that he mirrors your position, he knees drawn up, hands wrapped around them for balance. “Lean back,” he says quietly, and you obey without question. Your back meets his and you are leaning on one another, supporting each other, as he gazes west and you east. At first, it isn’t enough, merely tickles the restlessness, provides no relief. Then you lean more firmly until you are pressing against him and he against you, a strong and constant counterpoint. With an almost audible hum, an eager vibration, the whining ache streams from your middle into his, where it is absorbed and expelled harmlessly into the deepening sky. Calm seeps through your shoulders to take its place, to ease your clogged lungs until breathing becomes a pleasure rather than a chore. He is there in the breaths, his scent, his strength, his comfort, lulling you in that gentle, consuming way, drawing you in until your visions and memories, your heartbeats, are no longer only your own. You could moan with release, fly with it, and know that he’d be there to catch you. Without pretense or ceremony, to hold you while you drifted. Gratitude swells behind your eyes and nose, a stinging bubble of tears both relieved and mutely elated. He accepts even this small discomfort with a tranquil sigh, bears and banishes it so you won’t have to. Meaning to tell him, to thank him, you whisper into the dark. “Harm.” But wrapped in that word are your intentions and dreams, your faith, your longing. It is all you have to say, the only thing he has to hear. “Sarah.” And the night wraps smoky and secure, binding you to him in serene benediction. Sometimes, it is all you’ll ever need.