Honeysuckle Heat (continued) by Michele Lee

From Honeysuckle Heatblog

He resisted the urge to sprint toward, grab, twirl, and embrace the vision, afraid that his passion might vaporize the dream that seemed to float in front of him. He began to walk toward the vision with slow and steady steps that did not match his racing heart. Steady steps trying to control a body pulsating with fire left his mind dizzy, forcing him to retreat from the battle raging under his hot skin. He stopped on the pier. He would not fall into a dream that would trap him. He would not become a casualty of his imagination. What if the vision in white is not real? He could not bear it. His empty arms would pound the star-filled sky and his lungs would unleash a cry that would silence the croaking and clicking and cause sleepers to suddenly rise, wondering if the full moon had transformed a man into a beast.

What if his arms find only a night mist when reaching for her? His heart could not bear it. His heart would explode from his chest, swim through the thick night, then stretch and separate into a million fragments. Blood would not splatter on the grass. His heart fragments and fiery blood would bond to the swaying white mist and float away, only to reappear during a full moon when the honeysuckle scent blanketed the night air, intoxicating all who breathed it in. Lovers strolling along the lake’s shore would swear to having seen a floating vision of a woman, wearing a blood-streaked white dress, and a few would grab each other tightly after hearing a deep scream of unknown origin that caused their skin to crawl.

While his dizzy mind, racing heart, and frozen feet waged a war, the vision in white began to move toward him. He watched, wanting to believe she was real, but needing to protect his wounded heart. The white mist began to morph into the shape of the woman he left on the LA sidewalk three months ago, under the same moon. Vivid details were beginning to appear. Her hair was longer. Her face displayed a hesitant smile. Her eyes were lit by the reflected light bouncing off the water. Feeling the gentle movement of the pier when her sandaled feet stepped along the planks told his feet, heart, and mind that she was real. Still pulsing, but no longer at war, his body began to move toward hers and his smile told her all she needed to know. They reached each other and embraced. Two hearts reuniting and throbbing under the full moon.

Words would come. They first needed to slow their breath and find their courage. The right words would find them. They walked side by side back to the guest house. He noticed her suitcase sitting next to the screen door that was being smacked by insects drawn to the lamp inside. He brushed off a few flying hitchhikers, then carried her suitcase inside when he went in to get cold drinks. She did not follow him. Her decision to sit on the porch chair furthest from the front door told him all he needed to know. They needed to talk. They spent the next three hours talking, disagreeing, crying, listening, understanding, conceding, laughing, gazing, and drinking iced sweet tea on his porch while the sweltering heat and the scent of honeysuckle enveloped them.

She had enough. She placed her sweaty glass on the porch table and stood up. She smiled at him, then ran toward the lake. He followed, almost tripping over her white dress laying on the grass. A dress that was soon covered by his jeans. She had a lead on him by a few strokes, but he quickly caught up, pulled her toward him, and wrapped his arms around her bare submerged waist. The refreshing lake washed away any remaining inhibitions and hesitations. With legs gently kicking to keep their bodies afloat, they dove into each other’s eyes, losing sight and concern for everything except their intertwined bodies and connected hearts. The passion felt told them all they needed to know. Their sounds of laughter and loving blended with the earthy sounds nearby, created a musical composition that floated into the center of the honeysuckle flowers and the minds of sleeping dreamers, making both sweeter. In their floating dream they remained until the first hint of morning burst over the distant mountains, causing them to dart from the water, grab their crumpled clothes, and sprint back to the house, laughing with each hurried step. Once inside, they fell onto his unmade bed, into each other’s arms, and into a deep sleep.

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