“Eet eez while blacksmeeting zat one becomes a blacksmeet,” says the man gazing again at the red stiletto shoes. The beauties I had been saving for a special occasion. Patent, and low cut. Four inch heels. I love wearing them. I love wearing them for him, even more.
IMAGE: Catholic school. Patent shoes that reflect, theoretically. The nuns don’t like that. Verboten. Not allowed – that sort of thing. Arguing – “It’s just light and reflection.” “Reflect on that,” Sister Maria replies, with a quick strike of the ruler.
And then there’s blacksmithing.
“Eet eez exactly like zhat,” he said, when I rolled over and opened my eyes, languorously. Not quite 5 a.m. Dreaming. A good dream, and he is there. The blacksmith. His strong arms. His hands. Those exquisite, long, perfectly tapered fingers. What was he talking about?
I manage a sound. “What did you say?”
It is a whisper, a breath, a voice I haven’t heard in myself in so long. Too long.
“Zee blacksmeet,” he repeats, with his rich, rumbling tone. “Eet eez while blacksmeeting zat one becomes a blacksmeet. Eet eez een zee doing of a theeng.”
“Ah,” I say, basking in the accent like a hot bath. The sensation of him still reverberating on my skin, my lips, deep inside.
He is talking about making love. That it comes to us, the pleasure of it, the knowledge of it, in the doing. And this – the expansion, the growing into another and into oneself and beyond both of us, this filling up beyond ourselves. Yes.
The forging reference. I canno’t hide my smile, though if he were still looking at me – and he is – he could interpret that expression in any number of ways. There is something amusing about the fiery and hard reference in his very Germanic analogy. This man from Alsace, this delicious mixture of cultures and tongues. Oh God… he is rolling towards me again.
REFLECTION: Is this dream or reality? Am I still in the airplane and dozing? On the train, lulled by the motion as we travel under the Bay?
I turn my head, slowly. Imagining a tall man, blue eyed, intent, relaxed. A smithy apron. Smudges on his face. Fire behind him. And the insistent sound of metal against anvil. Other sounds, nothing to do with blacksmithing at all; everything to do with hard and soft, the illicit, improbable, irrepressibly human exchange of male and female, renewing and releasing. Interaction. Heat exchange. Forging.
REALIZATION: If I am dreaming, let me rest here awhile, with the scent of bougainvillea that stirs from somewhere in the distance, the odd combination of aromas that are both Mediterranean and Northern European. This impossible mix. This sensation of rocking.
Leave a Reply