31 January 2011
We sit with his head in my lap. The wind sends snow careening down from the pines. It speckles his hair like dandruff, or bits of salt scattered to ward off evil spirits. We are the only two people in the park, dark silhouettes against the backdrop of baseball diamond lights. The game was canceled, due to the early and unexpected storm. We waded through snow up to our knees to get here, to sit on this particular hill under this particular tree. We sit with his head in my lap and I stroke his hair and brush out little flakes of white dust. He buries his face into my thighs and I squeeze. My fingernails are three shades of blue as I shake his shoulder and say, We should probably go home. He holds up two fingers; he requests two more minutes of sitting here shivering. I say, Please. I'm thinking about how they'll find us in the morning, stiff and intimate, his head in my lap, begging nakedness and warmth. I'm thinking that I should go, now, alone if he won't come with me. He says, We are learning to feel without our bodies. We sit with his head in my lap and I lick the thickening clumps of snow from his hair and swallow them whole.