Private Storms

Very often it is not a man that we love, but love itself.
And your real lover that night was the moonlight.
Guy de Maupassant

She was young—too young for love—but she had seen through the window the dome of the moon and desired a lover.

I was a sinful wish—one she promptly disavowed.

But having been uttered, either aloud or in the head, her words found a way to take on flesh—they would reproduce after their kind.

After all, words are things her teacher told her. And that is why she desired him.

He was older—at least thirty—and she was young—only seventeen.

Her name was Abbey—a warm, mellow, coffee-sounding sobriquet. It suited her.

Also, she was French, her skin darker than the other girls at school.

Her hair was darker too—a damp cloud of mist encircling her face. Those tresses were black as trees of night that moved upon the sky.

Her hands were soft as willows that longed to soothe and move upon his older and rougher hands.

Her eyes were silent as midnight prayers rising from her bed.

He lay awake, restless himself, somewhere in the checkered window squares.

He thought of her—her dark hair—her dark mouth and her purity.

He hated himself but longed for her like a wolf drawn to the moon.

He stared into the stars and tried to decipher his fate.

He was in love with an underage girl and was sorting it out in raging moonlight.

The stars of his youth so far so high, were receding and soon would be out of sight.

Yet he had no right to be lying here dreaming about her beauty.

She closed her eyes and dreamed the dream—the one he had mentioned one day in class.

“Have you a favorite dream, Monsieur Le Brun?”

“Yes,” and that far-off look in his eyes.

“Could you describe it?” Dolores asked.

I thought it impertinent, but could scarcely breathe. I was hushed and so too was the class.

Twenty-four young girls in kilts and white blouses, knee socks and dreams, rapt and hanging on his every word.

“It’s foolish,” said he.

“Oh no, go on,” they all thought in their heads.

“I have this ritual before I sleep. I must have the curtains open to the night. I love to lie and watch the moon and the stars.”

“How romantic,” twenty-four brains were thinking, though there was scarcely a noise—not a scraping chair.

“Anyway, I find myself hiking and lost in the woods. Night is approaching and I must seek shelter—but there is no one to be found.”

Each of us pictures ourselves alone with him in the darkening woods.

“As I say, night is coming on, so I gather armfuls of branches and make a huge pile. Next, I gather fir boughs and build a lean-to against a hill. I bring some branches inside to keep them dry and build a fire.”

His face is shining, lit by the ruddy flames. The darkness impenetrable all around.

“It begins to rain—at first a few drops—and then a violent storm rolls in. I am protected, however, within my shelter, safe and snug from the lightning and wind.”

He stops—his face abstracted—lost in the reverie of his private storm.

We sit transfixed—all eyes upon him—imagining ourselves sheltering as well.

All of us entranced and wondering, how it will all turn out...

Who will be chosen as his mate to weather the storm?

© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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