702. clothes

Her clothes were on the floor, on top of his. Thrown, not folded. Thrown in the way one remembers not the throwing, thrown in the way a tree throws autumn leaves to the wind, abandoned one could say, tossed with haste, without care, a testament, or perhaps evidence. His shirt fell first, empty sleeves now at the bottom of the scrum. Then pants still belted, heavy denim, male heft, the smell of him as wood and sweat, of a certain sweet musk neither dirty nor clean, neither child nor parent, not even of earth or sky. He smelled this way. Not so much intoxicating as otherworldly, but not so much as otherworldly as someplace secret, like a hidden cave or an undiscovered lake upon the mountain, of air not breathed before, of skin warm and supple, slightly sweaty, a mixture of salt to the tongue and of eyes drinking, thirsty as if sight itself in the dim light could quench a parch not known of lip or finger, neck or thigh, breast or nipple.

And then, as if children dancing as they saw their parents dance, her blouse sat upon his denim, not with force, or command but not demur either. More like a feather, or a bird, or a balloon come to rest, softly and the hint of lavender was as warm air, buffeting what was not masculine or rough or hewn but the opposite of those things, of what moved not as water but more like milk and not so much like milk as like cream, a certain languor, purposeful, mindful, but not with agenda, not with device or artifice or manipulation, not even subtle manipulation, or even subconscious machination for the falling was as light upon the floor. A warmth like that. Quiet like that. Natural as that light from the window. The light of a blue sky, of a day where flowers hue and breezes run like recess.

This was before and the night was still and silent. The sheets warm of body. His breathing steady in peaceful sleep. The clothes, too, looked peaceful in the moonlight, looked in their tangle as canvas discarded and she thought of painting, of the painting that happens before the canvas, implied with brush and stroke, but still she wondered, what is a painting, what would it look like without the canvas. Can it be seen, this canvasless painting. Can it be known, to stand before the medium of cloth and to know what is seen is but a mirage, a mirror, only a finger, pointing to something else, as if the painter were mute, the artist speaking with sweet oil a language not of sight or touch or any sense. It was like that, this sitting, in the quiet, looking upon their clothes.