micro memoir | On Language Without Speaking

“It’s awkward, don’t you think?”

“No. It’s difficult, but it’s not awkward.”

That was their first conversation on ordering in a land whose language they don’t know. Experiences both of them had had many times around the world.

“Would you consider yourself as a hippie?” She asked with her head on his shoulders, after their first kiss.

“Some people have called me that.” They swayed a little from side to side. “Would you consider yourself one?”

She never thought about it. She backpacked here and there, had less experience with psychedelics than she would like, and was now venturing into free love. Could we say that she was a hippie without knowing it? “I’m on my way to one,” she answers, still in his arms.

He pressed hard into her upper back, then held her tightly to him. He grabbed her butt, and she let him. They rubbed their cheeks together. He was unafraid to hold her, show his attraction to her, experience her in every way nature has allowed humans to. He was touching her in a way no one ever has.

Before they left, he held up her hands, as if about to dance. Their souls were doing exactly that.

“You’re beautiful.” He said.

She reacted to this line in a way she never has. It felt natural, there was nothing self-conscious in there. It wasn’t a comment on her appearance, but on her youth, her heart, on the energy that was surging through their intertwined hands.

“I feel there’s not an equivalent word to describe men.”

“No, there isn’t.” Their eyes were still locked.

“Well, if there were, I’d be saying that to you right now.”

“Thank you,” he got the message. After all, they had so many more ways of communicating than people normally do. He was experiencing her through touching her hand.

When he first touched her hand on the table, and his fingers gently stroked the root of her right thumb, she froze and tensed up. Except her tongue pretended that things were fine and kept on talking about her art. She suggested they look at her art website, an act that required them to break hands for a metal object (which everyone in society likes to use in place of actual contact) come in between. This was her subconscious’s way of coming up with an act to break the physical connection, which was growing too strong, too powerful for her. Too much fear was present, an untoward remainder of her past.

He looked at each painting more carefully than anyone ever has. As he looked into the visual medium of her past souls, she looked at him. How peculiar; he found another way of communicating with her without speaking. He carried and held up her retreat, like water to a rocking boat.

More and more, they were able to stare into each other’s eyes for longer moments. Her mind no longer found excuses for her body to stop doing what it enjoyed.

He, too, no longer needed excuses to caress her hand. Her hand started responding. He was spring, opening her up. She was awakening, like the cherry blossoms. It was march, a night after the first full moon of spring. She gave up her other hand as well. How marvelous, she remarked, their hands intertwined like octopus.

“They’re extremely smart, you know.”

He knows. “They think with their tentacles.”

They became octopi and the hundred thousand other animals that came before them.

She was afraid. This was the first time she had experienced such a full connection with another in just six hours. How would I feel tomorrow morning, when the influence of the classic whiskey highball is gone?

“I had never… This is all new for me.” It’s always taken her a long time to develop physical intimacy with someone.

“Why?” He asked over the swing set, as they swung to and fro, on different frequencies, because of their relative gravities.

“I need trust.”

“Do you trust me, then?”

She thought hard. “The logical answer, based on my past experiences, would be yes. But we are on new territory, where past logics no longer work.” Like on the moon, where their accustomed gravity doesn’t work.

“Then let me help you in discovering new territory.”

Like next to him, where her accustomed gravity doesn’t work. He pulls her in.



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An artist in, of, for, at life. My very life is my performance art. I write short and sweet (and savory) stories and poems in this grand performance ( •◡•) ♪