When I went out with the dogs, past midnight, there was a couple f*cking, fully clothed, standing up, under the bridge. They would have thought they were in darkness, but from where I stood they were a sharp silhouette, backlit by the lights from the hotel behind them.
Her legs (I could see the shape of her high-heeled shoes) were hooked over his hips; her head back, long hair swinging with their movement. He held her up against him, with no support. Except for her legs, wrapped around him, they could have been dancing.
I could use another word, something more acceptable. Sex. Intercourse. Even making love, which they certainly were doing. But f*cking seems right. There was a primal beauty to it. They, together, were the world; there was no other world than the two of them, together.
I watched, a long moment, less voyeurism (though that, too) than admiration for the pure athleticism of it. One of the dogs made a sound, and the world, my world, intruded into theirs.
She slid off, slowly. Standing, disconnected, they merged even closer together; swaying with a different rhythm. Laughing, I hope.
I turned away with the dogs, glancing back (wouldn’t you?) to see them slip over the riverbank.
This at the end of a long day, in which I learned that the seventeen year old son of a couple, for whom I have great respect and affection, has died, of an accidental overdose.
I have no children; I cannot grasp, I cannot hold, the intensity of this connection, or the depth of this loss.
So the day opened, and so the day closed.
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