On the Charles

There was no river in her bed.

The river had been there while she slept; dark and thick, it stretched out over her sheets and flowed against her legs. She slept these days on her back, her legs slightly apart. It had become habit to hold a part of herself while she slept -- a breast, between her legs, the rounding of her belly -- and on this night the river had coiled itself around her, touching her inner thigh, her side, her waist. It flickered around the curve of her mouth; its dark tongue, a cold ribbon, sliding to the small hollow at the base of her throat, rounding her shoulder, moving to her breasts. It circled her breasts lazily; and her nipples, dusky under the water's darkness, tightened. It slipped under her, tracing her spine into the cleft of her buttocks, where it rose up over her, pressed between her legs, nudging her thighs open, meeting her wetness with its own. She reached down to draw the river into her, and her hand, breaking through the water's surface, fell onto her thigh.

There was no river in her bed. Only the sheets and blankets lay tangled around her. She reached out and picked up the small traveling alarm clock. It was 4:30 AM. The river had made her cold, and she got up and walked to the washroom. It was colder still in the washroom. She switched the light on and sat on the toilet in the midst of white tiles. There was a full length mirror on the opposite wall, reflecting the whiteness of the room and of her body, a whiteness broken only by night and fire: her hair, a dark mass tied at the nape of her neck, the tips of her breasts, the dark triangle, the mouth of her river.

This was the map to her body; the lit paths guiding the airplane, the lighthouse marking the ocean's edge. She stood up and walked back to the bedroom. There was still time to return to bed, to fall asleep again in the grey citrusy night, to dream. Instead, she dressed: thick socks, a dark blue sweater, wool leggings. She wore no underwear and could feel the stiffness of the tights fold between her legs.

She went downstairs and collected her skates from the hall closet. The closet was stuffed with winter hats and mismatched pairs of gloves, and she pulled out a white glove and a red one. She put both on and stood looking at her hands, a cardinal in snow, blood on sheets, notes played in an empty house. She took off the red glove, picked up her car keys, and drove to the river.

She drove along Memorial Drive, watching the river unfold; the street doubled in its ice. She parked, walked to the bank of the river, put on her ice skates, and pushed off onto the Charles. There was no wind, and the ice was sure and swift under her feet. The blades cut the ice like a new moon slicing open the night; there was the water below her, below the ice, and sweat around her, making the sweater feel sodden and hot. She took it off and skated bare from the waist up. Her body felt strong and tight, and she skated faster, her wool leggings bunching up and scratching her thighs. She stopped, and pulled them off over her skates, ripping them open on the skates' edges.

She was naked now except for the skates, skating the length of the Charles; the white of her body, snow, and moon cast on the black ice. She put her hands to her breasts and held them, stroking her nipples into stiff points. She skated this way for a while; the motion of her thighs passing each other creating a warmth that rose into wetness. It was then that she saw him. First his shadow, his shape moving across the water, then his presence, until he was there behind her. He stopped, and putting his skates on the outside of hers, he held her, one hand moving from the curve of her waist, her breasts, to tip her throat backwards. He kissed her; his mouth cool and hard, his tongue sliding against her lips, her tongue, her throat. She felt him kiss her neck, while one hand slid down her stomach and past. He touched her clit, running a finger along the slit of her pussy, slipping his finger into her and into her making circles. Suddenly she was the open moon, the night pulling him into her, her space. A wetness lit by her whiteness.

She turned then, and touched his face, skimming her hands along his cheekbones and the back of his neck, and running her hands down his body, she unzipped his jeans, and brought his cock out. She held it in both hands, and crouching in front of him, ran her tongue to his balls, returning to take him into her mouth. In her mouth he felt smooth, silver, the round head an insistent ship coming to port. She felt his length tighten, the pulsation of blood, his hands holding her hair back against her neck. She reached around him and held the curves of his ass, pulling him deep into her mouth, touching the underside of his balls, the loose skin folding and unfolding. He held her neck, an arresting grip, and straightened his spine, his weight falling forward, as if, in coming, she held all of him in her. For her, this moment was blackness -- eyes closed, his thighs against her shoulders, belly by her forehead, all light removed; the boundaries of the world determined by his shape, a blind sailor navigating the ocean by touch.

He pulled her up, and feeling how cold her body was, he took off his jacket and put it on her, doing up each of the buttons. Then, grabbing her hand, he spun her out in the ice, skating the river; their shadow a giant hawk flying low over the water; the tension between them caught in their grip. He switched his hands, and crossing behind her, lifting the jacket up, and entering her from behind. They skated this way for a while; she, leaning against his chest, he, moving inside her, moving them across the ice. They came, simply like boxes unfolding. A triad of pomegranates. A crow wheeling against the moon.

He brought her back to the bank where her car was. She sat on a park bench, and he knelt in front of her, undoing her skates, rubbing the warmth back into her feet and ankles, kissing her forehead. He raised her legs over his shoulders, her arms spread across the back of the bench, and looked down at her, taking one hand to spread her labia open, the other tracing the long line from her arched feet. She made small circles with her hands on his back, moving her fingers along his spine, his shoulder blades, the nape of his neck until the faint pricks of light made the water buckle under their feet, and looking up, she saw the first of the long trail of dog walkers headed for the river.

Dressed only in his jacket, she drove home. The small travelling alarm clock, its LED display faded by sunrise, said 5:35 AM, and she got back into bed, pulling the blankets and sheets around her, reaching for the folding between her legs, slipping her fingers inside, and waiting for the river to flood.