Chrysalism
I have a theory to life… A theory that is one of a vast endless array, to which we have our choosing. Would that be of interest, for however long it may last? Where life begins and ends, encircling the finding and losing of one another. May you desire in the taking of hand, and the love of tales embarked. For if life was just one big tease. Wouldn’t that be fun?
Summer woke up to the sound of rain gently pattering against the screen of her window. Her hair was slightly messy from sleeping, and she was still in her pajamas walking downstairs from her room.
"Daad," she said in a melodic voice, her father was nowhere in sight. She walked to the front door heading for the yard, wondering and looking. There he was. Soft music playing gently fitting the environment. He turned around, "take a look sweetie." As she walked closer to him, rubbing her eyes, she looked in his direction. There was a rainbow emerging in horizon, the aftermath of the storm. Refracted by transparency of the drizzling tear shaped rain. "Stunning, isn't it?"
"Mhmm"
They stood staring and listening, to the song of the rain and calming instruments. The composure evoked a stillness, strings of violin deferential to the drips, choirs that were parallel in the harmony of hums sung to the heavens. Trusting and holding as life came to being, drawing closer to a conclusion of someone leaving, fleeting away. Sometimes the most inspiring moments are the sad ones, for a sense of loss of something once loved, becoming fragments of a memory.
"Where does a rainbow come from?" she said tiptoeing to peak above the fence.
…
He was standing out on the porch by the flowers, hanging flowers that hung across the ledges. She walked out of the bathroom and up behind him, a towel in her hand drying her long hair. "I didn't know you had a tattoo,” she said gracing the left side of his body, touching with her fingers, moving slowly down the design.
"I...”
"Don't say anything"
Though both gender generally maintain a similar internal temperature of 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit/ 37 degrees Celsius (quick shortcut F-30/2, C*2+30), men have a higher metabolic rate (source). Typically due to their higher levels of muscle mass which requires more calories to support and thus generating more heat. When that heat evaporates it warms the skin, clothes, and surrounding air. There was a study that studied the affects of sleeping naked or close to naked as opposed to sleeping with clothes. Is it really better for our bodies to sleep in the nude? For lesser degrees of constriction and temperature regulation.
They were laying enclosed by the rain, a cabin, away from the busy city, away from the people, chrysalism in oasis. She was in his arms, legs curled atop, body closer for warmth. Reciprocation. A duvet partially covering and slightly revealing. The air was chilly just shy of being cold, comfortable enough to walk in undergarments but cold enough to seek warmth. She adorned his oversized sweater, in socks and lingerie.
“What?”
“I don’t want to tell you.”
“Come on, there’s nothing to worry about.”
“You’re going to judge me.”
“Okay maybe,” she nudged him and laughed.
“but atleast you wouldn’t be afraid to show me that part of you.”
“You won’t tell anyone?”
“I won’t”
“What did you have in mind?”
”Nothing you’re not comfortable with.”
“How is your arm?” he said gently holding it. “I’ll be the first to sign your cast.” He reached for a brush pen lying on the nightstand. Scribbling… ‘What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.’
“…What about a shower scene. Cinematic, intimate, and sensual. Birds chirping. Water splashing. A direction of tease, not giving what is desired. We can go however and as far as you would like, adjusting the perspective to show just enough.” He was her canvas. Bringing to life any vision she saw in portrayal. Sometimes revealing bare skin. Flowers that bloomed in hold, dresses held against skin, hands hiding in suggestion. She was a model in the only eyes that mattered, his.
“Beautiful”, he took a picture. A composite of colors, shapes, and lights in a balance.
