It’s not that I’m a terrible writer… It’s that I’m a terrible show-er (which translates to terrible writing). But as I always tell my daughter when she complains about going to orchestra, talent is not enough. It has to be nurtured, strengthened, and encouraged. Even professional athletes have coaches helping them to improve their skills. If I want to be an awesome writer-mom, I have to practice what I preach. So, there will be an occasional assignment post, or excerpt from same, to keep me honest.
ASSIGNMENT #1 REUNION
I see him desperately searching the ponderous stream of faces exiting the heavy security of the terminal, his brown eyes becoming visible and brightening as he presses against the slower moving traffic in his path. As he finally wends his way past the snail-paced crowd and breaks free of the terminal he slides a worn ball cap over short brown haired liberally splashed with early silver and adjusts his course towards me. His casual lope belies the excitement in his sunlight smile, dimples and crows’ feet deepening as his grin warms those golden eyes from slow, cool maple to molten honey.
Stretching to his full height as he finds room to move outside the crowded airport, he raises his long, lean arms above his head, his button down shirt lifting just enough to show the letters “I” and “e” in stark black on either side of his otherwise pale navel. The complete tattoo reads “I Walk Alone”. But, only I know that, as well as I know the Kanji on his upper arms hidden by the long-sleeved button down shirts he always wears, and the incomplete, never-to-be-finished (“No pain is worth it, I’ll just wear a shirt at the beach”) flame-dancer that covers his narrow back.
He stops just out of reach and sets down his suitcase. He lowers his eyes, hiding his gaze beneath the bill of the familiar, faded green bill of his A’s cap. His chest rumbles with quiet, perfectly male laughter as he enfolds me in his arms, nestling my head against the muscles over his ribcage. I inhale deep; his clean, soapy cologne filling my nostrils and drawing another deep, masculine chuckle from him at my contentment. He is not a large man, but with his arms around my body he feels like a giant, resting his chin on my head as though I were a child. His stillness cloaks me from the world and creates an island of just him and me, long fingers tangled in my hair and one hand holding my head against him, forcing me to cease my endless fidgeting and making me as still as he is.
His breath is hot on my forehead and temple. Cinnamon spice tickles my face as he bends to my height lips soft and heavy pressing against my skin. Hot velvet words travel from my ear to my sternum, abdomen, lower; tightening things low in my belly. My eyes burn but contain the watery relief that he’s home safe.
“I missed you too, hot girl.” He whispers, words caressing with gentle, unseen fingers. “I did miss you too.”
He reaches back without looking and finds the handle of the rolling suitcase. Shoulders hunching, suitcase in hand, he laces his long cool fingers between my smaller warm ones and sets a course for the waiting vehicle, sauntering across the pavement, quietly laughing at the frustrated woman striving to match his pace and not pull ahead.
And that, as noted, was assignment #1… Which, by the way, actually got a really complimentary review from “The Instructor” who shall henceforth be called, TT, Senor, Jefe, or Teach.