Creeping Up From Behind

Creeping up from behind

She sat on the boulder looking out at the ocean. She was pensive andthe sea was unsympathetic to the weight beneath her thoughts. The waves
buffeted her hopes and took them far beyond the breakers to swim with the dolphins. She would love to swim with dolphins.

She’d been drawn to his shy demeanour, his awkwardness around women, and his lack of savvy in the wicked ways of the world. She was amused and delighted by his clumsy way with words, as he tripped and stumbled over the cobbled syllables
of the simplest phrases.

She smiled as she remembered telling him that
she liked him and was glad that he was her friend, and of how he muttered and mumbled that he liked her too. She was happy when she saw the fierce blush darkening his cheeks. He had no idea how attractive that spread of colour was

It was this and more that had crept up on her, catching her unawares, odd that he’d drawn feelings of tenderness and, eventually, arousal. He was so different from the others who were brash and confident, powerful in their musky manhood, with classic looks, hard bodies and the power to hurt her.

She was younger then and less worn by a world that still had ugliness to reveal. When her insecurity had forced her to probe his thoughts, he’d said that he loved her company.

They talked everyday, she was his boulder, supporting him in times of trouble. She was strong. He was gentle, both providing the words the other needed. As their friendship grew they found that they shared interests, a love of art, music, literature. Mostly they shared a need for acceptance.

They’d sat on the rock that she rested on alone. Separately and together they sent their dreams out to sea to swim on the back of dolphins. The dreams returned to them refreshed.

His hand had rested loosely on his denim covered knee as they’d talked about their tomorrows. Made brave by the swell of the sea and the romance of
the moment, she’d brushed her fingertip gently across the back of his hand. It was only the breeze of a caress.

His hand tensed; she looked into his eyes, worried at the lack of response. She was amused to see that he looked terrified, not repulsed.

‘Are you happy?’ She asked, her breath halted in anticipation of his answer.

‘Oh yes.’

She'd relaxed and smiled.

‘Come here,’ he said, opening his arms. He said that, not her.

She molded into his big body that she’d always known would be comfortable. He smelled nice, male with a waft of sea. She breathed him, moving closer into the strength of his arms.

Her lips danced lightly across his neck, just below his ear and she smiled as she felt his breath catch in his chest. They stayed like that a little time, each adrift with their thoughts.

Sitting alone on the rock she tried to think who'd broken the magic but all she could remember was moving into a looser hold and being held by his eyes. They were oval portals of perception and intelligence, his best feature. She saw her reflection in them moving towards him.

The kiss was long. His hands stroked in rhythmic circles on her back. Hers slid into his hairline,
caressing his neck. He responded. It wasn’t the kiss she’d intended. She’d wanted their first kiss
to be gentle, a mere brush of barely parted lips, a soft kiss, perfect in its innocence and simplicity. When they pulled apart he was shy again. She smiled.

It was time to leave. She kissed him again as they said their goodbyes.

He was gone and time shifted its cogs, adjusted its settings and it was as though he’d never been.

Darkness snuffed out the warmth. She could feel it inside. She was alone.

She thought back to his frigid hand, stiff and unyielding beneath her tender touch. Shame burned her cheeks as she remembered his blush.

She’d mistaken his distaste for a delicious fear of anticipation, and had taken his disgust to be his shy sensitivity.

She bit down on her lip as she relived the moment when her lips had touched his neck. Had they
felt like the kiss of dread? He’d held his breath, rigid. When she’d kissed him He’d responded, he didn’t push her away or pull back. He’d kissed her as much as she’d kissed him—but what else could a nice guy do when a woman forced herself on him?
He did get in touch, weeks later.

She admired his honesty when he told her that he hadn't felt any romantic feelings. She hated deceit. Yet she’d been all too willing to deceive herself.

He’d met a good woman, got engaged. That was quick. She wished him well, sent a card.

Lucky, escape, she told herself.

She sent her hopes and dreams out to swim with dolphins. Her dreams didn't return and rejection crept up from behind.