Moonlight on Water
Moonlight on Water
by gina below
He lay still and smiled into the darkness, he could not help himself. He had awakened to the feel of her still in his arms and the comforting spicy smell of her in the air around him. He could have sworn she had been there the dream had been so real. But then again this was the way every dream of her was, so real he could taste her. Her words still floated in the air, as real as the warmth of the sigh she had spoken them with had felt on his neck, her soft kiss still warm beneath his left ear and the whispered words “Don’t forget” caressing his memory. He reached up and laid his hand on his heart where hers had lain and opened his eyes to search the darkness just for the hope that she would be there.
He sat up and as he rose from the bed he slid his old worn Levi’s on and zipped them leaving them unbuttoned as he walked toward the glass sliding door. He grabbed the Marlboro’s off the shelf and lit one as he stepped just outside into the winter night. The moon danced on the lake and he watched it as he leaned against the door jam and blew smoke rings into the dark. He was first generation Southern rebel boy born and raised, but with Yankee blood running through his veins on both of his parent’s side. He had a healthy dose of Native American blood thrown in for good measure so the cold did not bother him like it would most Southerners. But mild winters were a Southern perk.
How many years had he dreamed of her? She should be here now to share this beauty with him. She wafted through his soul like the wind through the trees. She touched every part of him. He knew what it would feel like to stand here and hold her as they watched the moonlight play across the water. How could he know that and not know her name? Not know where she was or how to find her? He knew in his soul she was more than a dream.
The magic of the dream still shimmered around him like the moonlight on the water, so he let his mind drift like the smoke from his cigarette. He knew exactly what he would say if she were here, “Come and look at this beautiful moon with me” and she would slide out of their bed and slip on his old flannel shirt as she walked barefoot toward him. She would fit right under his arm as he pulled her warm and soft against him and she would wrap her warm arms around his waist and lay her head against his chest. “Beautiful” she would say softly and he would look down at her and she would be looking up at him, smiling that smile of hers, the one where her one single dimple danced on her left cheek. He would hold her closer and they would watch the moonlit lake together in silence. No more words would be needed.