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095. Thoughtful
The sunlight in her house is different, France thinks.
In his house, in Spain and Seychelles and certain parts of Canada, the sun always beams through the windows like trails of sweet heavy kisses, it's warm light that he can bask in. Here it is cold, almost, not so hopeful or new, as it is in other places; like the sun has seen too much for the light to bring joy.
Vietnam, however, warms it up, her bare back illuminated by the soft butter - yellow light that pours in from the windows, those which don't yet have curtains. She makes soft sleeping noises, the pillow is mashed to her face, and France feels it; the moment, so powerful, her simple scarred beauty, that he must touch her, kiss her, bite her ...
But those soft sleeping noises are turning to waking noises. A light groggy moan, she turns over, inky hair mussed up- a job well done, France thinks, ghost of a satisfied smirk on his face- and cracks open her eyes, spiderweb lashes parting slowly. Dark gaze looking over the room, she finally turns to him, utter unsurprise on her face.
France is a master at this, the smooth something, a nice 'good morning', he'd been practicing it in her language; the one he could never quite fathom, tonal, like birds chattering.
She closes her, eyes, though, rolls back over before he can say anything. She probably wants to get more sleep, or maybe thinks that the whole thing will go away, he will go, if she just wishes it so. But then, no; she can't be whimsical, after living her life. Whimsy is a slight, delicate creature, birdlike; a blown glass creature, everyone born with one, that pops and shatters with age, with experience. And she, Vietnam, she lost hers long ago.
France's eyes trail down the expanse of skin and bone and scar, slowly, savoring the long, uninterrupted moment. He reaches forward, waiting until her breathing evens out some, and touches; milk on cocoa. It's just as smooth as he imagines, warm, moving steadily up and down. If she is awake to detect his touch, she does not show it.
The velvety skin is a treat, to be sure, but what he admires most is the imperfections; a long, thin puffing scar all down the valley of her spine, the Ho Chi Minh trail. On the back of her neck, he can see the cross that he branded there, all those years ago, and the scratch marks over it, the only evidence left of her desperate attempt to rebel, forget God and Jesus and Mary. Down on her lower back, a lotus flower blooms, the Padma, for purity. Disappearing over each hip are wispy Chinese characters, probably some sort of old Confucianist principle; they, too, are marked over.
Other little wounds mar her, he knows; the twin splits on her arms, pockmarks on her face, burns covering both knobs of her shoulders, scratch marks over her thighs. There are so many more, too, he wants to map her body like the artist he is, with his tongue, his hands.
Before he knows it, though, his moment is over and she breathes in loudly, waking up again (but the sun over her back is gone, she's not so warm any more). He retracts his hand, going over the Trail on her spine, as if he has been suddenly burned, cut. As if he does not have permission to touch, after sex; like the act itself, the night before, was a detached, unloving thing, discovering her wounds too intimate for the morning after.
In a way, Vietnam reminds him of Jeanne d'Arc; he ponders this, as he sits back, puts his suave face back on.
Like Jeanne she is almost untouchable, such a force, a freak of male-dominated nature, and much like Jeanne he knows he will lose her soon; as consciousness grasps her she gets a thinking look in her eyes, the one women always get, rolls over, pillow covering her chest (not before he glimpses the half moon tracing the bottom curve of one breast, though).
But: but. Jeanne was doomed, their relationship was doomed, from the start, the moment she took up arms. He couldn't stop her, only follow her, bask in her warm soothing sunlight glow. Jeanne was never a follower, a flocker-to-warmth, a woman to give up, give in. It was half a miracle how he got to her, in the first place.
Vietnam can be cold, so much is true. He bears the marks to prove it, as do America, Cambodia, China; she fights with tooth and nail, always. But she is delicate, she is markable, she opens her heart and is sometimes, bitterly shot down.
Someday, France may be another slash in her heart, mark on her skin, but now, now he tugs her close and in his warmth, his sunlight, she glows.
 men getting pregnant · Sat Feb 27, 2010 @ 08:08am · 0 Comments |
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