Stones

The stone in my pocket is a smooth, flat, not-quite-perfect oval; it fits between my index finger and thumb perfectly, like it came specially-made from the rock factory, just for me, custom order.

I sat in the steam-heavy bathroom and watched the outlines of your body through the glass doors of the shower -- you pressed your face against the glass, your hands, your body; you looked at me and smiled. (My camera's clicking fake-shutter noises loud and incongruous, audible to me above the sound of running water, the beating of my heart. You wipe the fog from the glass, watch me with the camera in my hands, pause. Click. And the glass clouds up again.)

The rock is in my left-hand coat pocket, small and warmed by the constant rubbing of my fingertips; the rock is a minute and solid secret. It could have a heartbeat; it could have mine. It might.

It was sky-bright, sun-blue, but the wind was sharp against our faces, hair tangled, and the waves were foam-white significance. We walked the beach, empty, coat-bundled and wrapped in scarves, looking down, sifting through all the pebbles with our eyes and following with our hands, crouched down, intent. I wanted glass, worn smooth by water and sand and time, and eventually, you found me two tiny bits and pieces -- one brown, one clouded-clear. All the rest was pebbles, rocks -- and at first we were quite discriminating, picking up and just as quickly letting fall, but soon, because the stones and pebbles might as well have been shipped over from some high-end boutique, so many of them ideal and lovely to look at and to hold, soon we collected and collected, our pockets clinking tiny-noised in rhythm with our steps.

The day after, after we came back to Real Life, back to time-moving-forward, irresistible. We came back, and you came upstairs with me, and you were lying on your back, eyes half-closed, and your voice was a soft-edged whisper, Take off your clothes, your face calm impassive (and it is an illusion, but a good one). Later still, we both burst out laughing, long and loud and helpless, while you stand there beside the bed, breathless, and I lay on the bed, the warmth of pleasure turning cold and dripping slowly down my cheeks, along my neck. And we laugh, and laugh, and keep laughing still. The day after, that morning, before I leave to go to work, I pick through my small paper bag, heavy with small stones, and find the one I'm looking for, hold it in my palm for a moment, smiling, before I drop it in the left-hand pocket of my coat and walk out the door.

When I walk down streets, now, around the city, I keep one hand inside my pocket, fingers insistent against the smooth grey surface hiding there. It soaks up nervous chaotic energy like the sun and breathes the warmth back into my skin. (My hands are almost always warm, my fingers. I feel the cold on the backs of my hands, my wrists, but carry my body's heat within my fingertips.) And every thing I see, every breath, each word -- I collect them in my hands like pebbles, and carry them around, hand them to you, one by one by one. How long does it take to count up to infinity?

When you are somewhere else -- across the city, or wandering through sleep, my fingers reach for you. (The only-thought of you, itself, is enough to keep me warm.)