Genesis

 

In the beginning there were Piña coladas and double whiskies, a chance encounter at a bar. I was lonely, overworked, searching. He was funny, engaging, not bad to look at. He was there, while you weren’t even thought of. You were an unknown variable, beyond the edge of our perception.

There was an invitation. A short taxi ride. Kissing, touching, fumbling in the back. There were shots of tequila in his messy bachelor’s kitchen. Stumbling up the stairs, strewing clothes on the floor as we climbed. Skin and sweat and heat and light.

You were an accident, an unintended consequence. In the half light of a muggy lampshade you were the product of our equation, the fusion of our internal details.

He said you were a mistake, a fault to be erased. But I knew different.

For now, your universe is small. It is the warmth of my breast, the blinding glare of lights and monitors, the hum of machines, the beep of electronic devices, the chatter of midwives, the rampant beating of my heart, ready to burst out of its confines.

But your world will grow larger. Your horizons will expand. You will watch the sun rise up where the sky meets the sea. You will taste ripening fruit plucked from the tree. You will smell the rain before it starts falling. You will explore. You will create as you go, manifesting new realities, enacting new possibilities. You will go beyond me, forging your own path into the unknown future, a light in the fog.

You were an accident, an unintended consequence.

But I see you now. I smell you, feel you. And you are good.

 
 


 
Anton lives in Durham, U.K. He writes fiction and poetry while trying to finish a PhD in Theology, all fueled by numerous cups of tea. Find him at antonrose.com, or @antonjrose

 

 

Photo credit: ms. neaux neaux (https://www.flickr.com/people/msneauxneauxs-alter)