Equinox ★ jimmy page imagines

six

I wake on my own to the sound of singing birds. Dull light shines through the bedroom window next to your four-poster bed. Through the open door leading to the stairs, multi-colored hues shade the hardwood floors. The stained glass windows lining the staircase remind me of you. The delicate floral motifs match the roses blooming in the backyard. 

I check the grandfather clock in the hall: it's still morning. The dark wood stairs take me to your kitchen. I make myself breakfast with fruit and eat by the window. Thrushes sit in the bird bath, sprinkled with water as they shake their bodies and flap their small wings before flying away. A soft meow catches my attention. Your black cat, Buster, rounds the corner of the stairs to beam at me with large green eyes. I call him to me, gesturing to his food bowl beneath the table. He's sheepish and testing like you. Maybe he hasn't gotten used to me living in Tower House. 

The day is rain-clogged as most days. A cool breeze lifts the hem of my skirt when I step through the back door. Soon, it will storm. I hope you'll be back before then, coming home for lunch like a schoolboy.

The rose bushes shine with dew: I prune a few to bring inside and place on the kitchen table. I wish you could join me gardening during the day. But you've told me before that you'd rot with no work. I wouldn't mind you overripe and mushy.

You're lingering in my mind, reclining on the bed in a memory. Your fingers are draped over your knee as you listen to me talk about the festival last week. I was without you, eating olives and cheese, slipping into the Orthodox Church to listen to the chanting.

You grinned at me, gave me that look that meant you knew what I knew. "You were enthralled. . ."

"Yes," I answered. "It was very spiritual for me."

Much like the rolling lightness I felt when you first invited me to Tower House: stepping through the doorway and trailing my fingers over the wood carvings, lingering near the huge elegant paintings of lovers and animals and greenery just to listen to you explain the details.

You called me to your side, then, and I joined without hesitation.

Without you now, I walk back inside to your record room downstairs. I listen to Steely Dan. I pick up where I left off on your scarf, pulling the crochet hook through, thinking how, yes, purple is a holy color on you.

When I check the clock again, it's almost twelve-thirty. It still hasn't rained, so I set aside my work to cook lunch for us. Buster appears from the guest bedroom to follow me to the stairs and into the kitchen. I make cod and rice and feel your cat twirl around my legs until I drop him a piece. He hurries away with his prize in his mouth.

The thrum of an engine out front pulls me to the table. My skin warms at the thought of you, of sharing a meal with you. The pink roses we planted some time ago now sit in a vase on the table like a jeweled centerpiece. I fill our plates and set the table before stepping towards the door.

You're coming up the short path to greet me. Blue-grey light engulfs you. At the last step, you raise your eyes to me in languid ceremony.

"You're well?" You ask.

"Yes," I step back into the foyer as you come inside and forgo your jacket. "How was rehearsal?"

In a few months, you'll start the American tour. For now, you leave for the studio to practice with the band. When it comes time, I will take care of Tower House and keep the grounds while you're gone. 

"We're working through the set list." You sit down at the table and I join you. Perpetual cold surrounds you, lingers beneath your eyes and in the wrinkles of your hands. When you used around me, I'd walk into the other room. Now you only shoot up at studios and in hotel rooms.

I reach out my hand for you across the table. You hold it. With the other, you take a sip of water and swallow. Sometimes, your natural actions seem to labor you. I'd like to ask you to bed, make you nest with me like we used to with our blankets and sheets.

"Are you hungry?" I ask. I watch you with careful eyes, examining the exhaustion present in your form.

"A little," you reply. You don't pick up your fork. Instead, your gaze crosses the table. "Where's Buster?"

"He ran off somewhere before you arrived. I can go get him . . ."

"No, that's alright." You stop me with your raised palm and I settle back into my chair.

Outside, the rain has started quick and light. You follow my gaze and you hum.

"The roses are doing well?" You return to the center of the table, where the vase sits. You release my hand and take a delicate finger to one of the rose petals.

I nod. "I think all the time about planting them together."

You release a short breath of air from your mouth in a laugh. "Me too. I liked how you looked, with soil on your hands."

"And the tiny cuts from the thorns?"

"Yes, those too." Your smile is nearly full. You work outside with me sometimes, your hair tucked behind your ears and you wearing your jeans from five years ago,  scuffed and loose on you now.

I watch the memory pass over your face as your green eyes flutter from me. I take my chance.

"Do you want to come lay with me?"

You contemplate with a stare, then tilt your head to me in a nod that makes me stand and abandon the food. I put the plates away in the fridge, safe from Buster, and follow you up the stairs. The stained glass windows hold no reflection as the rain comes down harder.

You take off your shoes and climb into bed. I come around the other side. You are waiting for me, your arm cast across your side. Your knees curl when you feel my body heat and my grasp that wraps your shoulder and settles into your chest. I linger my other hand above your head on the pillow and play with your hair, frizzed from the humidity.

A small weight jumps onto the mattress. You pat Buster towards you, but he crawls across your legs to settle between us, in the space I haven't crossed.

I fall into a slow sleep in this house that smells so richly of you. Deep, cool, and sweet like well-water. I fall asleep and nest with you like we've done before, like we'll do again and again.

I was feeling lost somewhere when trying to write again for jp. I hope you enjoy this one. Lots here that's on my mind from time to time.