Equinox
"You know the water tower in Advance?"
The tulip trees were toyed with (by the breeze). And the daffodils slow-danced to the sight.
"There's a water tower," Adelaide breathed, "in every small town, Field. You have a fixation with water towers." A toothy grin. Showing her fangs. "Why is that?"
"Haven't a clue," he responded. "But, anyway, the water tower ... "
"What about it?"
"I just have this notion of ... us climbing up one of the ladders on the water tower there. Or anywhere. It doesn't have to the one in Advance, but ... no, we climb it, and we write our names in small writing on the side of the metal. Field loves Adelaide. Adelaide loves Field. It would be there forever. And only the birds could see it."
A giggle. A pause. "Hmm ... "
"You think that's odd?" Field asked.
"To want to do that?"
A nod.
"I think that's romantic. I mean ... " An airy giggle. "I've heard of caring names into tree-bark, and ... but writing them on the top of a water tower? That would be unique. But unless you did it at night, someone would see. Might get in trouble. And I know how well-behaved you are." She gave him a teasing nudge.
"It was just a thought ... didn't say we had to do it. Just a suggestion. A thought," he repeated.
"Well, thoughts," she said, "with you ... your thoughts, "they have ways of ... blooming in strange ways."
The mouse was quiet at that. Tail snaking in the grass. Silky and thin and ropy. And pink. Like his nose and ears.
The two furs laid in the grass. Went quiet. Resting. No driving, no going anywhere. No pressure. Just, for a change, totally resting. And cloud-watching. Though the clouds were rather sparse today. Mostly, it was a sea of blue. Inverted sea in the sky! Oh, with dreams ... so high!
Adelaide broke the silence by whispering, "I'm glad the spring's here." A breath (by the bat). "I'll be gladder ... when the summer comes." Pause. A paw-pad skimming over the greening blades of grass. And she turned her head (to look at him; lying beside her in the grass). "Is gladder a word?" A squint of uncertainty.
"I think so," was Field's slow, quiet response. "Yeah." Eyes aimed upward. Up and up and ... into that blue. That powdery, warming blue. The space (and color) of it. And how it went forever. How God must be up there, watching them. Were their eyes watching God's? Were they watching the Watcher? Was that some kind of paradox?
It sounded like one, anyway, in the mouse's head ... such a tangle of thoughts. Such looping possibilities.
"Mm ... " Adelaide let a breath out. Through her nose. And inhaled the same way. And swallowed, and sat up. And seemed to stretch a bit. Breathing, breathing. And looking down at him. The mouse. Her mate. Asking, "What are you thinking about?" She KNEW he was thinking. Always. Always, it was ... always something. Close to home or far-flung. His thoughts had their own half-lives.
His blue-grey eyes darted to her pink ones. Darted, stopped. Said, "Breathing. Bathing. Blowing bubbles. Things that begin with 'b'."
A slow, spreading smile. "Yeah?" A giggle. "Like bumblebees?"
"Bumblebees," Field whispered. "Aren't bumblebees the big, fuzzy ones? And the honeybees are the ... smaller ones. The normal ones."
"I don't know. I'm not well-versed in bees."
"Well, I'm pretty sure that's how they are. Bumblebees bumble. So, they must be big. A bee can't bumble if it's small and nimble."
"Stands to reason," Adelaide whispered playfully. "You're the farm mouse. You should know."
"I DO know," he defended. "I'm just ... it's been a while since the bees have been around."
"Rusty on your bee knowledge." She made a clicking sound with her tongue. "Better study up."
The mouse smiled, licking his lips. "I have a perfect memory, remember? I don't need to study."
"Ah, yes ... " A trail. And she paused. "Bubbles?" she asked. "You said 'blowing bubbles' ... "
A restrained nod by the mouse. Still at a lie-down. Them behind the house. The temperature must've been 67 degrees ... mustn't it have been? The thermometer in the kitchen window couldn't be reliable, could it? It had been there for ages ...
"What about them? Bubbles, specifically. Bubble baths? Breathing and bathing in bubble baths?" She giggled at the alliteration.
"Well, more like ... bubbles. Well, not about THEM, bubbles themselves, but ... you know, I was thinking," said the mouse, voice trailing out. And then trailing back in. " ... was thinking, you know, we could buy those ninety-nine cent bottles of bubble stuff. They come in those neon tubes, and those plastic bubble wands inside. They catch the soapy stuff, and you blow at them, and ... the bubbles come out. You know?"
"I know," she said, sitting up a bit straighter. Smiling. "Course I know. I was a child once, too, you know ... "
A smile. "I don't know that I ever was one. Not in mind. Or in spirit. Or ... "
"Well, you're wrong there," was her counter.
"Am I?"
"Yes," was her answer.
Field's eyes betrayed an innocence. An undying naivete. The mouse was so child-like. How could he not know it ... ? But he'd always been that way. He had no state of being ... in which to compare it to. What amazed her most was his ability to KEEP that. Those things. Those qualities. Unknowingly keep them ... despite his depressions. The failures. The pains. The losses. Despite it all ...
"You're staring at me," he whispered, self-conscious.
"Am I not allowed to do that?" was her reply. Returned at an equal whisper.
"Well ... yeah, you are. I just ... "
"It's one of those days?"
The mouse said nothing. One of those days ... when his confidence was teeter-tottering. One of those days. Field, in the span of things, he'd had too many days that were "just one of those days" ... in the past, they had overcome him. He had been prisoner to them. To "those days." But he was so much better. He was better, and he was ... full of hope. For his future. For his emotional health, and ... all the problems of his past, they could be left behind. But he still had lapses. Still succumbed to random, unfounded depressions. When he did, he held it against himself. He beat himself up over it. Mentally, he would berate himself for being so weak. For having allowed it to happen.
Adelaide would insist that it wasn't his fault ... there are things inside us we can't control, she would say ...
But Field took every lapse, every failure to be perfect ... took it all personally. Every stray thing. He took so many things personally. Fragile as he was. Delicate as he was.
"Field?" she asked again. Trying to pull him back to her. Back to their lazy-day reality.
"It's not one of those days," he promised, whispering it. Barely. "It's not ... one of those days," he repeated.
Quiet. Breezy, blue quiet.
And she laid down again ... next to him. Almost cuddling. So close. The warmth of her. The feel of her. The scent of her.
So close. So hushed, her whisper of, "What were you thinking about ... before we got side-tracked. Bubbles, yeah?"
"Bubbles," he whispered in agreement. Remembering ...
She nuzzled his neck with her nose.
"Was thinking we could blow bubbles," he continued.
"Now?" A smile.
"Well ... in the summer. When the summer comes," he whispered.
"And what's stopping us from blowing bubbles now?" she asked. "It's the first day of spring. It's warm enough. I mean ... "
"No, but bubbles," said Field, taking in a deep breath. "No, that's a summer thing. Like watermelon and corn on the cob. And sparklers." Pause. "Besides, we don't have any bubble mix. And no bubble wands. So ... "
A giggle. "That makes sense." Pause. "Been ages since I've blown bubbles." Her mind wandered. As his had done. The difference between them being: she didn't get lost in her own mind. She could always find her way out. Sometimes, Field got lost in his, and she was the lifeline that pulled him out. That he followed ... back out. But she continued, "Reminds me of lawn games. Horseshoes. Ring toss. You know, put a stake in the ground and throw rings at it, and ... lazy-day lawn things. You're right. Summer," she whispered. "Like, July days, when you KNOW it's gonna rain later, and ... you have the day off. You have a few hours. There's a breeze, and the cottonwood trees ... the air," she whispered. "Looks likes it's snowing. Those cotton seeds."
"That's more late-May, though ... cottonwood ... "
"Is it?"
"Yeah ... July is lightning bugs."
"So, each month ... "
"Each months has a sound of its own. A sight of its own. A color," said the mouse, "of its own."
"What's March? What's now? Green?"
"I don't know about March," the mouse admitted, "but I know that April is daffodil-yellow. September is golden. October is burnt orange. December is pine-green."
"Don't know, though ... December is ... red and white."
"That's two colors. Not one."
"So, each month can only have ONE color ... to represent it?"
"Well, I don't know ... " A pause. A twitch. "What are we talking about?"
A giggle. "I don't know," she whispered. Right into his neck. "Truth be told, darling, I don't know ... but, you know what?"
"What?" he whispered.
"Don't really care. I mean, why does it have to ... have a topic? Have a tangible theme? These are moments. These are captures. Our words, they're ... this, lying in the yard on the first day of spring. This is a candid photograph in our mind's eye. That we'll have for the rest of our lives. It doesn't matter WHAT we are saying right now, but ... that we are simply SAYING things. And we are seeing, and we are being ... in each other's company. Your words don't need to have the world's gravity, Field, when you give them to me. Your words don't need to be justified. They're your words, your thoughts, and ... sometimes, they're dreamy, and sometimes," she said, "they ramble and they roam into impressionistic realms. Sometimes, your words are just ... feelings. But ... they're yours. They're YOU. And you're sharing them with me. Giving them. And that's precious. To me, that's," she whispered, "precious. Cause I know they're coming from your heart. Whatever they're about. I know you give them to me ... out of trust and love and comfort. And I know how shy and timid you are ... I know it isn't easy," she said, "to be a mouse. But mice are so genuine and real," she whispered. Trailing.
The mouse flushed. Self-conscious. His ears swivelled (and blushed) slightly.
"Keep talking," she whispered. "Talk to me, Field."
"About what?" he asked weakly. Shyly. Oh, how shy he could be ... even around his own mate! There was a cuteness about that.
"Anything," was her hushed plea. "Just ... talk to me. Let go. Air your mind. Your poetry. Whatever you have ... talk to me."
Field nodded quietly, eyes closed. He swallowed. "Summer," he whispered. "We were talking about summer." A pause. "You can hear the killdeer ... and the red-winged blackbirds are perched on the cattails at the pond." The mouse's whiskers twitched. Nose went ... sniff-twitch! A sigh. And an opening of his eyes. "That feeling," he whispered, "that you're always washing up somewhere. After all the stresses, after you sink into the seas of things, you wash up somewhere ... and it's never very far from the land you grew in. It just ... " He trailed. And let out a breath. "I don't know ... but I love the FEEL of summer. And the FEEL," he said, "of spring. One a harbinger. One is birth. The other ... is fruition. Life at full flower." A trail. And an admittance of, "I want our love to be like a flower, Adelaide. I want ... not like other flowers. Not pale-pink. But scarlet! Gold! Our love ... set apart. Our love ... eternally summer. Eternally in flower. I want our love to be different ... I know that it is," he whispered. "I know that it always will be. And they can't touch it. They can't take it. And ... " Trailing again.
A quiet filled by the breeze. Them in the near-shadows of the oak and maple trees. Adelaide watching him, listening to him talk. His words. His voice.
"I'm sorry ... "
"For what?" She blinked.
"I don't know. I just ... I fear, you know, that I ruin moments," he whispered. "I ruin them by ... "
"Field ... "
" ... by over-thinking. By going TOO deep. And I just ... "
" ... stop it. Alright?"
Their eyes met.
"You're opening up. You're ... blossoming. You're ... just stop trying to criticize yourself for that. Sometimes, you're TOO self-aware. You don't have to perfect," she said, "for me."
"But I WANT to be. You deserve me to be."
"But you CAN'T be, Field. We're not perfect. We do our best, okay?" she whispered. "We do our best ... I love you, alright ... that's unconditional. That's a heavy thing. And it's not going to be shifted," she promised him, "by imperfections. Imperfections," she told him, "keep us humble. Motivate us ... to keep growing. To keep yearning. We yearn, we strive, we grow ... because we are NOT perfect. It is the striving to be," she told him, "that matters. But, sometimes, you get so consumed with striving to be ... " She knew it was more complicated than just telling him to "stop being so self-conscious," or ... "get over your compulsions." She knew him well enough to know that it wasn't as simple as that ...
The mouse flushed. Bit his lip. "I'm not ... I just ... " He faltered. He had suddenly gotten self-conscious. Again. Again! When she'd been looking to him. Drinking his words. He'd suddenly wondered ... what if he messed up? What if he lost his rhythm? What if he started boring her? What if ... there was a pressure to be her poetry? What if he lost it? Lost his artistic sensibilities? What if he woke up, and ... what if they were gone? Would she still love him then? If she loved his mind ... what if he lost his mind?
What if he hadn't the talents he had? What if he hadn't the trim physique and the mousey energy ... that he had?
What if he were just her stupid mate?
Would she still love him then?
He knew the answer to that. He needn't ask. And yet ... he still worried about it.
"Field, I'm a bat, you know ... I have mental abilities. I KNOW your fears. I KNOW," she stressed, "you. I've been inside your head. And I've let you into my own."
The mouse nodded quietly. Exhaling softly, shakily.
"You fear waking up and ... losing your artistry? Losing your innocence? Losing your faith? Losing your sanity?" she asked. "You're afraid you'll lose that spark that makes me love you? You're afraid of loss. You're afraid of failure. You have so many fears."
"I'm not ... "
"Selfish? No," she whispered. "You're just afraid."
"Of what?" he asked, eyes watering. "Why?"
"You're a mouse." A breath. "That's the simple answer. You're prey. You're a mouse. You were built that way. It's an extension," she said, "of your survival instinct. That's the simple answer."
"And the complicated one?" he asked, hesitating.
"You spent two decades of your life," she whispered, "STARVED for love. And now that you have it," she said, trailing. Pausing. "Now that you have it ... you're terrified of losing it. To the point where you demand perfection from yourself. You want to be perfect for me. You berate yourself when you're not. You ... you're not gonna lose me," she said, sighing. "Field ... you won't. Okay? Stop trying so hard," she pleaded quietly.
"Yeah ... " She saw the word on his lips, but didn't hear it.
She slid her paw over his bare belly. "Let go. Just BE," she said. "I know you've the capacity. You've done it before. Just relax, and ... lose yourself in this moment. In this love. It's not so hard." She was so encouraging. So nurturing. Why? Why was she those things ... did helping him ... did it give her joy? Why was she so patient with him?
He (of his myriad compulsions), worrying about the most intangible things ...
Adelaide took a breath. "What made you think of bubbles, anyway?" she whispered gently. Back to bubbles.
"I just ... the clouds reminded me of bubbles. Buoyant. Born of the breeze. The warmth reminded me of that. The breeze."
"Well, we'll do that, then. On the first day of summer," she promised, "we'll blow bubbles."
"Even if it's raining?" he asked.
"Even," she said, "if it's raining."
A smile. "Can you even blow bubbles in the rain? I would imagine ... raindrops would be the death of them. The bubbles, I mean."
Adelaide giggled and shook her head, and said, "Field, just ... just stop," she pleaded, giggling lightly, "saying the word bubbles. It's starting to sound like a nonsense word. I mean, the sound of it," she stressed. "Bubbles, bubbles ... " And a descent into laughter.
The mouse's dimples showed on his furry cheeks.
She noticed them. "Aw ... "
And he blushed and bit his lip, and turned his head a bit.
She brushed his cheek. Her fingers, her paw ... tracing delicate trails on his cheek-fur. And tracing his lips ... sitting up know. On her knees. Tracing his lips.
And those lips taking a nibble on her fingers.
"Looks like I may have a bite," she whispered.
And he opened lips. Slightly.
So she could slide a finger through them. So he could suck. Nose sniff-sniffing ...
Their eyes met. Locked.
Their hearts hammered.
And she gently pulled her paw out of (and away from) his muzzle. "It's, uh ... spring now, Field ... "
"Yeah ... "
"The birds and the bees ... and ... " She sighed as his paws scratched her hips, her belly ... " ... and all that," she finished. "Y-young love ... spring things. Let's," she panted, closing her eyes as she unbuttoned his shorts. As she unzipped the zipper. "Let's be spring things." She was flooded with a sudden heat. A rising heartbeat. A quiet, welling passion that had, in the course of their talking ... had boiled over without either of them noticing. And, now, they were both soaked in it ...
"Al-alright ... "
Her paw was kneading his sac ... through the fabric of his briefs. His balls still loose. Not yet snugged up to his body. Allowed her to roll them round and round ...
She huffed ... swallowing. His paws were roaming her belly again. "Field, we, uh ... need to get our clothes off." A kiss. A smack-smack of their lips ... a string of saliva trailing, breaking. And another kiss.
"Off," he echoed, between lip-smacks. Between breaths. "Off ... "
A good thing about the countryside was ... they could do that out here, in the open air, and no one would notice. No one would see. Such privacy! A world of their own!
"We can't do that," she reminded, "if our paws are ... if we can't stop feeling each other up ... "
"Then ... " He swallowed weakly. "S-stop rolling my .. ."
"Stop ... massaging my tail-base ... " His finger was resting in her shorts, on the outside of her underwear. Pressing on that area directly below the tail's connecting point to the body (but above the tail-hole). Her tail a foot long, stubbier and shorter than the mouse's. And thicker, too.
"Count of," Field panted. "Three."
"Count of three," she agreed. "One ... " Pant, pant. "Two ... three."
Neither had removed their paws from the other's body. Paws roved. Paws clung.
They huffed and met eyes. Each looking, seemingly, into the window of the other's soul.
"Um ... um," Field breathed. His erect mouse-hood rubbed against the cotton-white fabric of his briefs. And the pink, smooth head poked above the elastic band.
The pink-furred bat swallowed. Taking the lead ... and tugging at his shorts. The mouse raising his legs so she could slide them up to his knees, around them. To his ankles. Where he kicked his shorts and briefs off. Aside. Now naked.
Adelaide undressed herself ... while Field tugged shyly at her clothes and her fur, waiting for her.
She crawled over him on all fours. Poised there, breasts heaving. "Well," she huffed. "Seems we caught a spring fever ... "
"You gonna tell me," the mouse asked shyly, submissively, "what the cure is?"
"You have a good imagination. I think you can take a wild guess ... "
He could. And giggled quietly. The giggles soon muffled by her muzzle, her lips ... and the grinding of their hips.
Soft little huff-huffs ... and squeaks (on his part) and chitters and echo-bursts (on hers).
Field, beneath her, wrapped his paws around her, hugging her down atop of him ... before she pushed her upper body up, up, sitting at a straddle. Swallowing. And before she raised herself ...
Before they were connected ...
... and breathing, savoring the coming together of their bodies. And the coming together of their minds as she leaned down. As she licked and lapped at his neck, wetting and numbing a spot for her bite.
Love guiding their instinct. A shared pleasure ... their aim.
They were soon lost under each other's caresses and touches and hip movements. The ins and outs, the wetness, the heat ... all of it melting into wonderful sensation.
Each of them being the other's medicine. And neither of them content with just a single dose. But, rather, attempting to cure their antsy ails ... repeatedly ... while the equinox watched with envy.