by Christopher Lovdahl

Created on: September 15, 2008

The warming rays of the afternoon sun begin to stretch across the room, tenderly reaching outwards in long golden streaks, like shining cobwebs in the light. You decided to sleep in today. Tangled in a mass of blankets, one arm outstretched, your other arm is drawn close to your body. Your head rests on two pillows, turned to the side, tousled hair obscuring your eyes. As the amber light caresses your face, you briefly stir. Awake, but your eyes are still closed, ready to sink back into the calming seas of liminality. The scent of lemon blossoms hangs in the air and there's a delicious smell, like fresh water hitting the dust on a hot, dry day. You breathe in deeply as your fingers curl and uncurl, feeling the fabric of the bedclothes.

The phone rings. Your pupils dilate slightly and you breathe a little faster. You already know who it is from the ringtone. The night he shyly slipped you the napkin across the table with his phone number scribbled on it, you took the napkin carelessly, tucking it into your purse. But later, alone in the quiet of your room, you'd entered it into your phone, giving him his own ringtone. The corners of your mouth curl slightly upwards in a smile. You turn over on your back, slowly raising your arms skyward, stretching your legs and body. Your pulse quickens and your heart leaps, not because you're nervous, but because the mere thought of him evokes a sense of euphoria, flooding your nervous system with a overpowering sensation that lights up thousands of tingling neurons. You sigh, a deep sigh of contentment. You grasp the phone with outstretched fingers. His voice comes through on the other end, a deep and throaty, yet silky sound emanating from his vocal chords that seems to roll off his tongue like accumulated raindrops. It faintly tickles your ear and for a moment, you just lay there and listen to the sound, mentally cataloging each syllable and intonation. He asks a question, his voice understanding and soothing. You hesitate for a second, then respond softly, almost teasingly. You can hear his boyish grin on the other end of the phone. He says he'll be there, then hangs up.

It's that perfect time of day, when the air is warm and breezy, and the sunlight creates long shadows. The small cafe he suggested is quaint and out of the way, tucked in a sun-kissed alley behind small brick shops lining the street. You sit there sipping your piping-hot green tea, smoothing your dress, waiting for him. It was almost an hour you'd spent

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