There was a ghost dancing to the left of the stage, immersed in the sea of people, moving in the same rhythm with them for three hours; he was sharing their air and sweat, the words their lips formed, the thoughts that floated around their heads. He shuddered into consciousness whenever someone bumped into him, like a person gasping for air before plunging back into the murky depth, only to be absorbed back into the crowd in a couple of heartbeats. And yet – he was an alien part of the crowd, a piece waiting to be rejected by the whole; a fish jumping out of a bowl, a whale throwing himself on the beach.
I noticed him because he was collected from different memories. The toss of his hair was infused with longing; the curve of his hips sent a surge of lust through me. I imagined his lips were whispering old conversations into my ear; I thought his hand was resting on the small of my back, nudging me forward. A ghost, I thought, who was perfectly calm to be here, not afraid of my awareness. Perhaps he knew that I was not going to reach for him, grab the hem of his jacket and pull his ethereal body toward me, feel it melt in my fingers.
On the way home I watched the sky and the fields out of the cab’s window. Storm was coming, I thought, and the sea of tall weeds was dancing with the wind, slithering mutely in the air, enticing me with its licentious dance. It invited me to exit the cab and join it, walk among the dancing weeds and trail my hands over them, to feel their elastic stems caressing my skin; to be an alien body within a larger organism.
It was a pleasure to feel the cool wind on my skin, in my hair, reaching inside my collar, playing with the hems of my shirt. The cab sped away on the empty highway toward the city, a particle moving against the body of wind. My house was in its way, too; curving around it, the wind howled and moaned.
Jonathan met me with a smile, stroking my wind-caressed face with his hand, while my eyes traveled to the window where weeds were dancing; I wanted to take him to the field, but his hand seized mine and he led me upstairs, where murky blue spilled from the window onto the bed and the curtains were floating with the breeze. His stomach moved slowly under my lips; his fingers brushed me slightly, mixing with the caresses of the wind. His mouth was that of a ghost, reaching for me, or for this world; like neurons in our spinal cord, we connected to join separated parts, to be a part of the whole.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw shadows dancing on the walls; their sinuous bodies enjoying my distracted attention, disappearing once I became I aware of them. Jonathan’s hand was moving over my body, mine over the curve of his hips.
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This is, perhaps, the most sexual thing I've ever written.
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