Burn Slow

For Magpie Tales: Mag 284

I didn't want to wake up, not just yet. 

A smidgen of light crept into the room, doing nothing to disperse the chill in the air. I put out my hand to the other side of the bed, my fingers making contact with air. You do know that the warmth of having slept in a tangle on a goose down bed by a wood fire cannot be shaken off that easy, right?

I see you. I see you through a sliver in the door, I see you trying not to clang the pot. Or is it a pan. I smile; those Superman boxers look ridiculously cute on you. I see you having a staredown with the coffee machine; how someone so intelligent can be this technologically impaired, is beyond the workings of my mind – should I save you from the evil machine? I decide not. And you do too, at the same moment as you plonk down a saucepan and throw water and grounds in it. When you sneak a peek to find out if you woke me up with your plonking, I squeeze my eyes shut – it is too much fun to watch you when you don’t know it.

A whisper in my ear, the scruff of unshaven cheek tickling mine. I’m wide awake and already reaching for morning cuddles. The sleep-worn smell of warmth and male. A night-old t-shirt that you always stretch out when you are pulling it on over your head; I don’t know whether to scowl at yet another dheela t-shirt or laugh at the way it always, always gets stuck just before the neck.

The brew is strong. The mug is huge, you know my penchant for giant mugs even if you don’t understand it. The ceramic is both hot and cold as I wrap my now-cold fingers around it. It doesn’t take much for you to start talking; you regale me with the tales of strangers, making me laugh, making me smirk, making me proud of the person I choose to be with. The aroma of fresh coffee colors your words and that’s when I realize that this is the moment I will always associate with the smell of coffee from hereon. I realize we are making memories.

It is cute how you insist I wear a warm jacket; you don’t seem to realize that the cutoffs have left my legs bare to bear the brunt of the brazen breeze. Nevertheless, I slip on the jacket you are holding out. It is also cute how you think my short legs are incapable of jumping puddles; you hold out a big, solid hand, nails bitten to the quick when I am not looking, and I pretend to hold on for life every time we chance upon the havoc last night’s rains left behind. Only till I start hoping there are more puddles – I don’t need an excuse to hold your hand but it is always nice to have one.

City slickers like us are rendered speechless by all the green around us; both of us silently let the relief of not being able to hearing honking motorists. I can hear my own thoughts! I say jokingly. You grin. My heart does a flipflop. Aren’t I too old to be sappy over a smile, the cynic in me wonders. I brush her aside and enjoy the flipflop. And the mini-gush of love that comes after the flipflop. I say nothing, though. I don’t need to.

We walked down the meandering path with no particular destination in mind. Occasionally bursting into conversation, but mostly quiet. The kind of comfortable silence that comes with the knowledge that this is the almost boring status quo that you have craved all your life and that this status quo is and will be the Rock of Gibraltar that keeps you from being washed away on rainy days.

The light fog swirls around us. The chill stops just short of making our teeth chatter.

The farmhouse with its friendly little wood fire was welcome respite, whoever said that the mountains are forgiving had it wrong. The chubby little homemaker kept offering more warm scones with a bit of blackberry jam and a swizzle of homemade butter. The firelight rendered the best form of you on my tired eyes; you dug into the snack like there was no tomorrow but I had to resist the urge to lick the jam off your lips. Resist only till we got home but that is fire for another chapter, no?

When I fought my fight to live in the moment, to not let the darkness get the better of me, this is the moment I was preparing for.
Life is on slow burn. Exactly the way I’m not used to. Exactly the way I like it.

Love is not a feeling, it is not an emotion.
It is not a starburst or a comet shower or a heady wine that goes straight to the head.
All of them had it wrong, terribly wrong.

Love is a time, it is a place, it is a person.
Love is now, it is here, it is you.