How did we get here?
It is not even the warmest part of the year, but the midday Texas sun seers the back of my neck as we walk through shoulder-high grass and brush in the clearing just above the creek. I am following the movement of her dress, the rhythm of her ass dancing amongst the clumps of Little Bluestem grass has emptied my mind of all frivolous thoughts. I have been so focused on the beckoning call of her locomotion, that I forgot why we wandered out here in the first place.
An afternoon escape from the dark mediocrity of the stale living room seemed like a good idea. It was a great idea. We just failed to ease our minds before stepping out. I was mad that she wore that dress. That is not proper attire for the wandering I like to do. She walked ahead in frustration because of me. Understandably so. I was being a patronizing dolt. She knows how to take care of herself out here. And now here we are, not talking. I hear her anger in her silence. I just cannot bear the thought of harm to come to her. I overstepped. I no longer care about chiggers and ticks.
Instead, I am watching the strength of her buttocks peak through the dark thin fabric of that dress. Every hop leads to a split moment where I see a bit more thigh than I should. I am letting the distance between us grow slightly just so I can see all of her without having to move my eyes too far. She moves gracefully in my view. She would argue differently. She is wrong. There is a smoothness to her motions that is attractive: when she runs, when she stands up from the kitchen table, even when she tosses sheets at me to throw into the washing machine. I sometimes watch her shower, not because I am fiendishly staring at the brilliance of her nudity, but rather because I like to watch her body in motion as she washes her hair and rinses it.
My daydreams of showers and sheet washing are interrupted by the immediate panic I have as she slips into the shadows of the juniper curtain. I know she is just a little ahead of me. Her disappearance is unsettling nonetheless. This is always the case. I have the same slight panic every time she gets beyond my perception: when she leaves for work, or when she walks out of the bedroom in the morning. I know she is not gone. But I have to consciously console my subconscious panic every time. I try to front a confident and tough male exterior, it is false bravado.
The scratch of the juniper under-story brings my attention back to the moment. I duck low and push through the barbs of the thin and sharp lower branches. The sun disappears into the deep shadows of the creek bottom. The smell of juniper leaves sterilizing the ground is cleansing, a change from the sweet smell of prairie grasses. The aroma overpowers my senses as my eyes adjust to the sudden change in brightness. I scan the dropping terrain for her, the panic still upon my chest with a heft I do not care for.
I find her sitting upon a little step of limestone outcropping. A flat solid hunk of smooth rock laid down by an ocean bottom eons ago and worn smooth by the constant flood of the creek. She has found a dappled bright spot to bask in. A spotlight created by the short Post Oak clutching onto the rock like a child looking over the edge of a cliff. The limestone step offers a bench that drops down about four feet before flattening out onto another piece of flat limestone. This stair-stepping goes all the way down until the fertile, sandy flood plain flattens out to the creek bed. Each step goes back further in geologic time. This cascade of solid rock is broken up by the strength of some of the biggest trees of the area, Post Oaks, live oaks, sycamores, cottonwoods, and finally towering bald cypress trees that stand guard over the ancient waterway.
She does not acknowledge the sound of breaking branches as I scratch my way through the resistance of the juniper. I walk up with her back turned to me. She is perched upon the limestone, legs free with her chanclas dangling. It is quite something to see how perfect she appears after pushing through the hot tall grass and fierce brambles of the juniper and smilax vines. There she is, in her dress and little else. Beautiful. Here I am, dressed clumsily in boots, jeans, and a thick cotton snap shirt. I am standing behind her, admiring the magic of her appearance. Her dark hair is pulled up and back in a ponytail, exposing the nape of her neck. Her delicate neck sweeps into bare and strong shoulders. Shoulders that bear the weight of life with ease. I appreciate the way her shoulder blades dig into the back of her dress as she leans forward to study something.
She hops from the rock deftly and lands on the balls of her feet with a bounce. Her dress flows gracefully with her. She hunches over, gathering her knees into her bosom, and peers over at a thin red flowering herb.
"What is this?" She inquires with an honest inquisitive tone. It is the first thing she has said to me since her exasperated tsk when I asked if she would be wearing that dress in the brush.
I had been too busy to notice the flora around us. My attention has been drawn to her since I walked up. I quickly study the flower that seemingly holds her gaze. I also see the shape of her back and ass as her position has pulled the dress material tight around her. Each cheek is visible in shape. It is as if two lines start separately and curve sensually around her buttocks in perfect symmetry. The lines then come toward each other in the slimming of her waist before again diverging into the strength of her back.
"Cedar Sage," I say in a much softer tone than my usual speaking voice. I am lucky I managed to even get those two words out. My eyes are affixed to her arcs. She looks back at me over her shoulder. Her deep dark brown eyes are swimming with electricity that they always carry. How eyes so dark can be filled with so much energy is beyond my comprehension.
Her full lips become visible as she smiles in a very wry manner. Her hands leave the ground and find her hips. She pins her dress tightly against her back and ass as she stands up, I see the ripple of muscles in her glutes and hamstring as she maneuvers. She lets go of her dress and spins around and walks back toward the limestone bench she was sitting on. I am now standing with my toes over the edge, just above her. She floats to a stand of big green-leafed woody plants covered in red hibiscus-looking flowers. The flower community is taller than she is, dwarfing her petite frame and reaching up to my waist even though I am standing on higher ground.
She leans over facing me to smell the lower flowers. Her knees are locked together and she bends at the waist, leveraging herself with her hands upon her thighs. I watch her slowly bow to the flower, her eyes barely open and a soft smile upon her full lips. I cannot help myself. I drift past her beautiful visage. The elastic along the top of her dress is no match to gravity. I gaze down the front of her chest. I see the fullness of her breasts free of constrictions. I look even further beyond her cleavage to her solar plexus. It becomes quite clear that she is not wearing a bra. Her freedom excites me a great deal. I immediately felt how restricted my choice of clothing was. Particularly in my jeans, as my excitement has swelled in more places than just deep in my chest.
I force my gaze back up, slowly enjoying my vision's traverse to her eyes. When my trek is complete, I find her piercing a knowing half-smile directly into me. I am caught staring. I don't care, even though I feel a bit awkward.
"And this?" Her eyes have not left mine, though she continues to pretend to smell the flower. I am aware that she is pretending, as I know that there is no aroma to this bloom.
