Their Day

It was their day.

Two years ago on July Fourth was the first time they made love.

They had been seeing each other exclusively for three weeks. She had wanted to do it well before that, but he had his hesitations. It wasn't that he was shy or prudish or unaffectionate. They knew each other as friends before they started going out. In the middle of their first date, he took a reprieve in the middle of cloud watching to draw her close and they kissed for literally an hour. He hesitated taking that next step because she never really seemed to open up to him. Even in their most private moments there was always that piece of her that was guarded and that wasn't how he wanted it to be between them. He was not the type of guy who would sacrifice his ideals for a quick roll in the hay.

So it was on the fourth of July that he sat there with her watching Ever After. Consumed with thoughts of how becoming her own pair of wings would be on her, he barely noticed when she stood up. Without undue preamble she took him by the hand and led him into the bedroom. Once inside, she captured his eyes.

That night she had worn a comfortable pair of jeans and a pure cotton shirt. She was always wearing things like that. She told him once that she liked wearing t-shirts because they were always soft and comfortable, like she was dressing herself in white rose petals. At that moment she began plucking them one by one and allowed the petals to fall to the floor at her feet. In a short time she was standing bare before him, with only the gossamer glow of the moon gracing her skin. She was still, waiting for acceptance or rejection at his touch.

He was breathless. He had of course had a reasonable idea what she looked like under her clothes, but he refused to take that which could only be given. Until that moment she had always been ensconced in her own protections and insecurities. This was the first time she had truly surrendered herself to him. She had never looked so beautiful. No woman ever had.

Three hours later they lay there, bodies entangled. Neither one wanted to break the connection. He grinned and she cried.

"Gee, I hope I wasn't THAT bad!" He mused.

That got a chuckle out of her and she nestled herself more closely into him.


Two years later he found himself sitting sitting in another apartment, across town, relieving the humidor on his desk of another cohiba in his own ritualistic fashion. He admires the shape and luster of its wrapping. He draws the cigar beneath his nose and allows the smell to fill his nose. He rolls the cigar between his fingers and feels the smoothness of the wrapper. He listens for a crinkle, the sign of a poorly rolled cigar, but finds nothing unsatisfactory. He poors an ounce of rum from the faux-crystal decanter into a double-shot glass. In it he lightly dips the end of the cigar, only long enough to not spill the rum or soak the tobacco. He then clips the end of the cigar and lets it rest in his left hand. With his right hand, he passed the rum beneath his nose and knocks back the shot taking time to savor the warmth of the amber liquid dispersing like insatiable fire through his chest.

Now came the reason behind the ritual. He brought the cigar to rest between his teeth, never letting it touch his lips. He strikes a match, touches it to the end of the cigar and draws first breath. He watches as the fire dances on the end of his cigar. He watches the trail of smoke rising up to heaven as a declaration of the burnt offering. With this final sacred acknowlegement he draws the cigar to his lips. First contact was always barely a brush against the half-parted lips. Ah, but the second touch is magic.

It is on second contact that his lips commit to the draw and seem to fuse with the cigar. When the bitter shock of the rum meets the waiting suppleness of whetted lips in that first moment of realization, it almost seems too rough, too garish. As the touch lingers on his lips, what first seemed vulgar now becomes intoxicating. He is compelled to suck the marrow from it all the more desperately. He does so with a moan of satisfaction.

He had known her in the same fashion, and with the same intimacy as this cigar. He had admired her simple, unadorned beauty. He knew the fragrant blossom of her smell. His fingers had traced along her every curvature and drank of the suppleness of her skin. He knew the chime of her voice and had listened to her searching for some indication that she was too good to be true. He had found nothing. He had dressed, and undressed her and he had lain with her. He had tasted her. He had felt her warmth against the cold of night. In short, he had been inspired by her. Theirs was something unique, something special, and something sacred.

He had never smoked around her. She would have thought it was disgusting. She would have said he was killing himself. Now she probably wouldn't care. Now she'd probably save such worried entreaties for him. He pined for her, but all he had were these cigars and the ritual. Every time he smoked one he made love to her again. When his lips finally touched a new cigar it was their first kiss once more. She would have said he was killing himself, but what a sweet way to go.

Usually he paid little attention to the clock on his desk, but as he cast his glance downward he was charmed by it. It seemed to linger in that moment with him, desperately holding on to eleven fifty-nine. It held that moment for what seemed like hours. Eventually the clock surrendered to the greater will of destiny and the silly little red sticks arranged themselves to signal midnight.

It was no longer their day.