Evenings

The soft lights of blue lamps lend our surroundings a peaceful, muted glow. Hours ago, the place was alive with sound--tinkling glass, laughter, conversations in low tones, a soft syncopation of forks hitting plates, jazz in the background--contained energy, all in all.

The lights were orange, then.

It was your idea: sunlight in the morning, orange lights in the afternoon, a blue glow for when evenings come. "To simulate the changing lights of the day, Love, to steal just a little magic from creation," was what you said when you came up with the plan, a few years back. You, whom I thought ate logic and numbers for dinner, you who snacked on facts, timelines, data. Who would have thought you knew poetry? I may have seen it in your eyes, at some point, or another, but this--this loveliness is all from you.

I remember you startling me by quoting Shelley, once.

We have closed shop half an hour ago, it is 10:33. Now it is just you and I, and the fairy dust in this blue glow has mingled with the wine you've poured into my glass, making me feel lightheaded, awake and dreaming, even as I watch you take a sip from your wine, your eyes on mine, watching me, watching you.

"Put on Miles, Love," I hear myself saying.

Soon, "It Never Entered My Mind" fills the air. Soon, your arms are around my waist, my arms are wrapped around your neck, and we are swaying gently, gently to a cooing trumpet, a piano, soft cymbals. I lean my left cheek to your chest and you brush your lips against my temple. The music floats around, wrapping us, and I think of tenderness, think of the color blue, of tears all behind us, of warm breakfasts, of walks on the beach, of guitar strains, of sunsets, of moon-glow, of starlight. I feel your heart, beating.

"Let's get you to bed, Love," you, whispering, freeing my hair from its clasp. I feel your hands running up, down my back, and I bury my face into your shirt. "Five minutes," I say, "just five more minutes."

I am exhausted and tipsy, but I want this moment stretched into as far as it could be stretched. The wine, the music, and your nearness have all gone to my head, and I close my eyes. I mumble the lines of a sonnet, mixing up the words, my memory faltering a little, my voice trailing off. You touch the small of my back and I grow weak. I let myself. I feel no worry, no fear when you are with me.

Outside, the night deepens. Moonbeams reflect calmly on still surfaces.