Sticky

I took this picture at my older brother's wedding reception party. On the left is Ross, my twin, and at the right is his girlfriend. I was browsing photos and it inspired the [completely fictional] story that follows.

Her glossly legs stick to one another, pasted by a cohesion of mid-May heat and humidity. Her feet, swollen and slightly blistered, bob to the music, which keeps the straggeling guests, who are all too drunk and happy, languidly moving on the patio. The grass is beginning to cool; she inches her toes over the edge of her flip flops, bends back the flexible sole and runs her feet over the blades. Having had just the right amount of champagne and wine, the texture of the grass--which would normally tantalize her sensitive skin--feels good. Now comforted by the aesthtic confection that surrounds her, she leans into him, her moist body heavy on his. Her wine glass feels heavier, awkwardly aqueous as the ebb and flow of the thick liquid heaves with her wavering hand. She rests the foot of the glass on his knee, knowing his steady disposition will keep it, and her, at ease. He smells good--musk, cologne, sweat, hair product. She leans in deeper, her chest at his back, and she exhales across his neck.

He braces himself on the corner of the lounge chair, prepared to absorb the full weight of her body. He feels her breasts pressing against his shoulder, conforming to the creases of his back. Her breath is thick with the smeall of fermented grapes. Her chin plunges into his left deltoid, the pointed bone sending a ticklish jolt up his spine. He has loosened his tie and rolled his sleeves knowing that tonight he will become the fulcrum to her wilting frame. The black loafers he bought for this night are speckled with wine and whiskey, dulled in the moonlight, dirty and proud as they brace his tired legs. He grasps his beer with tightly folded fingers; his right thumb gingerly abrades the neck of the bottle. A freshly cut fingernail methodically peels the edge of the label while his inside fingers slip on summer condensation. He smells the grass and smells her. He is at once annoyed but also at ease knowing that she needs him. Drunk--or even not--her body, her head, her shoulders, her thin arms and cinched waste would be disoriented without him. He knows he loves her, and he is certain she loves him. Actively touching her or even acknowledging her intoxicated advances would ruin this moment, maybe even ruin them. As she fades further into a wasted drowsiness he knows what he must do. Planting his feet, squaring his shoulders, he takes a sip of his beer and takes a deep breath. He turns his head and exhales on her, knowing that the next intake will be breath of alcohol, of grass, of her.