The week I met Kevan last August


I sit here. In this house. I try to find the right words to truly describe the sound of the refrigerator. Not quite a hum, not quite a buzz. A sound that usually goes unnoticed. White noise. But it is noise.

I get distracted in my attempts to embody the sound of the refrigerator through words. Another sound pulls my attention away from the fridge. Sage’s breathing. She contributes to the sounds of this quiet room. Her sleeping body, curled in a ball next to me, moves up and down with each little breath. It’s almost a soft snore, but not quite snoring. A purr.

An ankle, my left, stretches out before me, elevated on the footstool. Cold and heat battle each other on this ankle. The heat of red, swollen, tight skin intoxicated with the venom of a bee. My second sting in a week. The cold of frozen peas in a biodegradable bag. The cold wins. I am thankful.

If I could write about what is really on my mind, the words would color the pages quickly. My fingers would move without hesitation across this keypad. Instead I pull the harness around the wild animal of emotion inside of me, and think of other stuff.

Like how to identify the sounds of the room in words. How silly.

This powerful force inside needs a safer place than the computer on which I type. I need the private pages of my journal. A pen of black ink, the one with the ever so perfect degree of friction between it and the paper. One that moves quickly. There on those pages I would loosen the harness, baring a strong neck. A powerful chest. An energy inside of me would gallop across the pages and I wouldn’t have any say in the matter.

There would be mention of light eyes and dark skin. Cherry lips and impossible curls. Strong hands, hard arms and thick neck. And that is only the surface of the surface.

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