That'll be 25 cents please

The universe holds her breath for this precious moment. My once puny, insignificant, meaningless existence vanishes, the boring desperation of my unawakened soul has been dragging me helplessly along, kicking and screaming through the dregs of life, cleverly withholding the surprise it has in store for me, sensing my deep longing, the anticipation of the arrival of something un-named, barely perceptible: underground, gestating just below the surface; the seed of a flower not quite ready to bloom.

Time collapses in on itself. You eye me, quizzically, eyebrow raised in that knowing, smart ass way of yours that I will come to love so much. “There’s no such thing as time silly girl.” You wink at me. I am putty in your hands. We are simultaneously hopping in and out of timelines.

The future is calling. It is all happening too fast for comprehension. You are whistling a tune, a happy knowing tune. It is green, this song, this field of infinite possibility. I am a soft bunny, the tall grass around me awakens my senses tickling my nose. It twitches with nervous excitement as the scent of earth and life mingle and dance. I am caught in this web of pulsing life where there are no limits.

"Are you ready?" , "No I’m not fucking ready, are you crazy boy?" You just smile, knowingly. You sashay all over my fuck no’s with a manly stride, stepping over my excuses and fears, taking my hand, spinning me around, I am twirling and swirling like a princess. Am I 6 years old? Magic abounds, fairytales come true, and my knight in shining armour has arrived.

I feel your summersaults in my chest. We are high diving, and high-five-ing, whilst performing multiple back flips on cotton- candy clouds, sipping on gin and juice, the taste of nerds and Cheetos dancing on our tongues. The popping of corn in the microwave yields a promise soon to be overflowing bowls of buttery white fluff and the eventual picking of teeth.

It hums, this feeling, like a refrigerator. Emanates comforting vibrations. The satisfying flavours and crunch of our youth, all comfortably mixed with the debauchery of our now adult cravings; jamming rock and roll, and head-banging metal magic for us on loop, as we bop our heads along one moment, and whiplash our long hair into the next. The effects of the pain in our neck will be felt weeks later, and we will never be quite the same.

The ring of the cash register. That’ll be twenty five cents please. He smiles pleasantly, and holds his hand out for the quarter I eagerly press into his palm. The cashier is a surprisingly cheerful middle-aged man who has eaten his own fair share of sweets and potato chips. It’s 1990, I am three feet tall and 10 years old. It's a time of innocence, when candies are plentiful in the big plastic bins of 7 Eleven heaven. I’m way back when, to where 25 cents is a small fortune, and candies cheap enough you can get a satisfying pile for this surprisingly small investment. The exchange is satisfyingly reminiscent, as I am held now by the warmth in your eyes. I’m a winner for life I feel. I’ve won the lottery.

Slippery. Wet. Like a fish on a hook. I am dangling on the terrifying feeling of gravity as I fall from the highest heights, or am I pulled from the guts of the ocean? I am upside down on a roller coaster, I am screaming, delightfully petrified in the haunted house of my eleventh Halloween. Watery eyes gush, sentimental with the memory of our first encounter. It happened just a breath ago. Then in a blink, years go by. How is it I am still caught on a hook? The same dangling fish? Barely moved. Wriggled and flopped about, but still stuck on you, like pink bubble gum to the sole of a sneaker. There are plenty of fish in the sea. Well, not for me I’m afraid. In this sea of plenty, there is only one fish. Only one will do.

Then it’s spring, and love is in the air. I’m feeling lucky. Like, four leaf clover lucky, as I prance my way to the stage. I see you from my slightly higher vantage point. You are art in motion, headed out the door for a cigarette. I am sweet 16 all over. I am always that girl when you come around. I just don’t know it yet.

Ah well, I almost remember now, this feeling of deja-vu. I almost taste it in my mouth. Destiny. It has been pulling me all along, like a glistening slippery fish on a line, leading up to this precise, fluid-fated meeting, where Sweet child o' mine, meets Sweet Caroline, in Sweet home Alabama. Or at least, in what is our equivalent: It's a delightful mash-up of heaven and magic in the golden flecks of your eyes. It's the two of us in the classic pie diner on the corner of the river bank's inner city, where my pupils are your only target.

Where warmth and honey caress my soul, a tender whisper meets my heart, “hush dear, he is the one”. I am plucked from my mediocre existence, I am thrumming with awakening. I am quickening, the pulse is hammering in my chest with an undeniable knowing, a persistent knocking that I cannot ignore. Will I open the door? Your presence is insistent. The soul knows. My voice is trembling, as I shakily whisper to myself, "it’s him, he’s the one". My body trembles, the earth trembles.

Your head turns, you are pivoting, zero-ing in, our eyes lock from across the room, you are now making your way back to the stage instead of continuing out the door. I am mesmerized. I cannot look away. You have stolen all my senses. They are no longer mine. They are now yours. I belong to you, and the sweet obsession begins. I am addicted. I am mush. I am sweet mashed potatoes. I am a puddle collecting the glorious tears of paradise. Ah, heaven has rained down, and I am the happy recipient of this divine alignment of dancing stars and a backdrop indigo sky.

You present yourself to me, "Here I am", you announce. Matter of fact, in that way of yours. You don’t actually say those words, they are stated implicitly in your stature, your commanding presence has no need for words. It's more a thought I sense, than a sound. It comes out as an inaudible whisper- "I know it’s not perfect". You are confident, yet painfully shy. It’s a familiar feeling for both of us, I muse.

“What?!!-Are you kidding me baby?” I think back at you in a flash. “There you go always being hard on yourself. Thinking I want more than what you have to give”. You couldn’t be more mistaken. But we don’t know each other yet. So of course, you are more self-conscious than usual.

The ocean of your eyes is vast and crashes all over me, I can feel the splash inviting tingling dripping sensations of cool water and hot sun upon the skin of my heart. Exquisite. I am a tornado of heat. I am turned on. I am switched to a permanent "fuck yes, give me more!" Your mouth is generous, your heart equally so. There is so much here, this gift is almost too much to bear. "Finally!", my soul exclaims! I breathe again, my first real breath. I am finally born. I am alive. I am awake. It’s all lead to this. Stars dance, galaxies are born, while burning, no blazing inside of me is a knowing that here is my downfall and my rising all at once, I am dust, I am ashes. I am the phoenix.

I am whisked into a new world of infinite possibilities. We are on a brand new time line. I’m at the right place at the right time, aren't I? I am thinking to myself, "No fair, this is the worst possible, inconvenient, yet ironically perfect time of my life. Of course you’d come to whisk me away from this mess I’ve created of my life. I’ve been praying for this moment, begging for your arrival. Now it’s here, and it couldn’t have come soon enough. How am I still not ready?"

No matter. Fate is a cruel jokester. Love, and destiny, know no concern for the practicalities of real life. Cupid has no consideration for my excuses, nor time for my hesitation. Here in this crowded room, our eyes kiss, shamelessly making love, without a care of who is present. I glimpse down to see my heart. A churning messy pulp of bleeding squishing; she pleads her case. “Will you let this happen? Can you believe in magic again?”

In answer, the screeching halt of my current life as it crashes with a loud explosive bang into this brand new life, every well laid plan of having settled for a comfortable predictable, boring, easy wandering and drifting aimlessly about, going with the flow type of merely “existing”, is suddenly over. It topples and shatters.

In an instant, I have memorized your every feature, every nuance, every minuscule twitch, the mechanics of your movements, every muscle, every tone and undertone of your skin, the shape of your lips and mouth, the pressing of your tongue hot and wet on every inch of my surface. Erotic fantasies dance across my vision and we haven’t even spoken a word. This barely registers, it happens imperceptibly, and instantaneously. I am a slave to your ministrations. I hang on your every word. I am a pool of drool puddled at my own feet, I am speechless, I am on fire, I am exploding with light.

My life before this moment, and my life after this moment, married in a flash, barely with an assent of consent, I feel myself nodding yes, ok, yes I want this, yes please, but oh my god I am terrified, and the messy start of a new life that I am certain, I am not quite ready for is an offering, hanging in the threads of destiny. Dangling tempting morsels of promise tease me, as I stare dazedly into your eyes. You have stolen all the breath from my lungs. I am a goner.

Crashing thunder applauds, and lightening flashes beautiful intricate patterns and geometric shapes across the tapestry of our Spirit, the vast space of our combined exhalation caught in the perfect storm of love at first sight.

Peace floods over me, my inner vision paints a beautiful dream onto the canvas of my now receptive, blinking wide-open, third eye . The home-coming is replete with mossy hilltops, lush trees, a babbling brook singing sweet melodies in the near distance, and on the horizon, a quaint cottage, draws me into the comforting warmth of our household, a cozy fire crackling from somewhere in the hearth of the home.

Now that I am inside, I can make out the sounds and smells. A delicate pitter patter of tiny feet on the wooden planks of our kitchen floor followed by a tug on my dress as our daughter with her midget height and miniature hands peers up at me with her gorgeous open innocence, her trusting demeanour calling to me from below, exclaiming her hunger with fierce tummy growls, asking “mommy s supper ready?”

The bubbling excitement of tomatoes and spices, bursting a response from the pot on our stove top, resounds with a “yes, sunshine, dinner is ready”. Billowy smoke puffs from the chimney, your big strong arms wrapped around me, assuring me I am safe, happy, and all is held and contained, in this gorgeous package of the future with a big, pretty red bow, and of course, surrounded by white picket fence and all.