He Tells Her What It’s Like When She Comes Into a Room

DSC_0123Like a draft of cool, pure water down a throat parched beyond all hope of relief.

Like the magic of a melody that means the world to you, when you hear it again unexpectedly, how it halts your advance and makes you wistful for a return to that time when you first heard it.

Like the earliest hint of returning dawn to the darkest sky, suddenly diminishing the ordeal of night.

Like the first glimpse of a mountain range emerging through the morning’s mist during a journey from the plains, or the gasp that catches in your throat when you behold the sea after a lifetime inland.

Like the indescribable hope that comes from a sure sign of spring: a warm breeze after weeks of icy gales, or a green shoot struggling up through the frozen sod, or the sighting of the season’s first red-breasted robin on the dull gray landscape.

Like the electrical charge that travels up from the bottom of your spine to your brain when you realize a notion so profound it cannot be expressed by words but only by physical sensation.

Like the exquisite delight from the touch of your eyes gazing upon mine, resurrecting me quicker than those dry bones from the Bible brought to life before the startled eyes of the prophet.

Like the abiding comfort that can sweep over a body when it knows it is where it needs to be, in the right place, at the right time, with the right company, and for the right reason.

So, do you understand now, my exquisite torture and my vixen of delight, my personal devil, my endlessly fascinating Marie, do you understand now what I feel inside my poor sorry carcass whenever you walk into a room?

–from the novel in progress The Moon and Michael Ridion (Chapter 6)

(c) 2016 Al Hudgins

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