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I have to say, summer has always been my favourite season. The sky, a careless blue, hangs over the warm, slow air. It just slows everyone down a little, shuffling along in shorts and shirt, rather than the usual dignified and purposed walk - clad in business casual - that seasons past attract. I love a summer Sunday: not a thought crosses the mind save for the contentment of existing at such a time. I love a warm summer's evening: the gripping dark mixes unceremoniously with the embracing heat, like a marriage that's been destined to fail for thirty-five years. Walking along the beach, the wind in my fur, it takes my brain off the churning worries of the everyday.

"I can't believe old grey face had the audacity to grade my paper as a C! It's not like it was a rushed job or anything - months of research for nothing. Even Reg scraped a B, and he did it the night before."

To be completely honest, I really couldn't care less about George's stupid university paper - he clearly isn't seeing the summer the same way I am.

"Well, I mean, you had to make a record of all your research. Maybe you just researched the wrong stuff."

George scoffs, the black spots that adorn his body giving the appearance of a far more animated gesture than what actually occurs, obviously I had no idea. "No no no; the research was perfect; he even gave a double tick on most of my entries. He just hasn't taken it properly into account when awarding the final grade."

"Sounds to me like there was an issue with the writing then." I shrugged, hoping to make the statement sound non-comital.

"Are you calling me a monkey?" Oops. "Third grade I learnt to write, and I've only gotten better since then. Apparently, I've gone backwards though, have I?" I shrug again, this time signalling for a topic change. "It's always the world against me with matters such as this. 'trust the professor, he knows what he's doing.' I don't think I bloody can when he makes such a blatantly visible error that no one else seems to be able to see..."

The wind picks up a little, providing a welcome chill to combat the rising mid-day heat.

"Water looks good this time of day."

George stops mid-sentence and looks out to the bay. "It looks the same as it always does."

I'm not quite sure. The water glistens, glows - sensually. It froths and ripples with power. Colours flow - deep emeralds transition to tropically lush greens and dark menacing blues. Like the swish of some regal dress it flows and shifts. George might be smarter than me: he can add numbers in an instant; he can divide and root and square without thinking. Even others like him are impressed when he places down his pen, having reduced a woefully complex and convoluted problem down to a simple answer; many lines of symbols and numbers reduce to one, or seven or nine. It's obsessive, the way he simplifies and reduces and trims in search of efficiency and understanding; he doesn't see like me. He doesn't appreciate and marvel in complexity and unknown. He never revels at the sight of something as a pure sensual stimulus. It must be reduced, and desensitised and broken into components and compared.

"Stupid professor just wanted to give perfect history prince Jason an A and put maths-brain George in his place."

Jason. I know him. Not well of course, but he's the kind of guy that you remember pretty well - you go out of your way to remember him. Reserved, measured and kind. You just feel like he deserves a little more remembering - especially since he reserves the same privilege for everyone he knows, pulling your name out of nowhere and remembering some glancing, disinterested comment you made to him two weeks ago. The world needs more Jasons I reckon.

"Jason isn't that bad"

George stumbles mid-sentence. "What? Jason has been and gone, keep up with the train of thought here."

Jason. Stands six foot two, in a decidedly neutral way - without the tip-of-the-toes, chest extended, chin up business that those with more to prove than they can manage part-take in; not timid though, not hunched and looking to the ground for advice it will never give. Brown fur, thick in the sense that it is not fur characterised by its thickness but rather enhanced by it. Any notable patterns? The slightly lighter patch sitting just above his tail, flowing across the lower back over a defined spine that climbs naturally to a slim neck, a forgettable neck (and mind you a neck you can forget is a good one!), and a head of hair that's untidy in a well kept and deliberate way.

In the cozy summer air, the sun on my back is making me forget where I am, my mind stays fixed on Jason. Strange, not so forgettable perhaps. In fact, I'm finding it hard now to forget his gentle, genuine smile; and it's getting rather difficult to remove the image of his inquisitive green eyes. Eyes that smooth over and gently nudge, not like the eyes, which I hate, that probe and prod and wonder why you're here at all.

I sigh.

"What are you getting all reminiscent about?" George asks in his typically aggressive fashion. He's annoyed that I might turn the conversation away from him for once.

"nothing." Funny how nothing says more than something.

George narrows his eyes. He can see that pursuing this could drag the conversation away from him, so he chooses instead to return to his complaint.

"The fact of the matter is, that people like Jason..."

Jason. His name removes me from the brittle, hard surface we're walking on; I forget about the sun bearing on my back. I feel as though I'm immersed in a cloud, high above, deaf to the matters around me. Jason, it ripples through me. It reaches the deepest part of my insides and causes them to resonate with...I don't know what.

"We should get a drink," This heat is starting to blur my mind. "get into the shade"

"Well, yes." George is taken aback at yet another interruption. Usually, I'm a more passive participant. The road continues along the beach, lined on one side by sand, and on the other by a row of small, cheerful shops - looking out onto the blended horizon. We walk haphazardly on the tired pathway towards a small café up ahead.

"This looks like a nice place." I motion toward an open wooden shack, loomed over by large umbrellas that shade the mismatch of eroded tables and chairs forming the eating area.

George only nods in response.

It's busy in a lazy sense of the word. Most of the tables are occupied by someone, but the laid-back atmosphere and cheerfully unperturbed customers dampen the busyness and seem to amplify the soothing buzz of cicadas and blissful rhythmic sliding of the waves.

I stop suddenly when I see Jason among the relaxed patrons. Most people would describe their heart as skipping a beat in such a situation, but to me it feels as though someone turned some unknown knob to its highest setting - my vision narrows, and my mouth opens slightly. My heart flutters - that's more like it - and the chirping of the birds becomes far more pronounced, more vivid.

George looks over at me, puzzled. His mouth is open as well - but for a different reason.

Jason waves - recognising one or both of us - and motions for us to come over. It's difficult for me to oblige, my chest seems light and full of air - having replaced all the essential things that normally sit there. My stomach seems to enter a sudden forty-foot drop despite very much still being contained within my pelvis. I don't even know Jason that well. Perhaps I'm only shy then. The thought wills me forward slightly and I follow George to the low wooden table.

"How's it going" The question is directed at no one in particular, but it's George who responds.

"Not too well to be honest; I was just telling Norman about a grading error that has completely ruined this week for me."

Jason looks at me, my mouth open slightly to respond in an answer I never got to deliver. "Is that so." He winks at me and returns his attention to George who has already launched into his complaint crusade without any further prompt.

I look at Jason. I stare. My eyes seem to be intent on consuming, completely, the formation of colours and shapes that make him up. Details, so vividly, I consume, drink as though water I have been left without for days. His nose, perfectly formed. A charming accompaniment to his bright face. No, not perfect, no, for perfect would be a bore - filler already contained within the mind that surfaces when someone says 'nose.' The left side of it has taken a slightly different form to the right; a miniscule divergence. It shifts as he breathes, rhythmically adjusting and sometimes out of turn it suddenly changes as he yawns or blinks. His fur is brown; but to say that would do it no justice. It warms where the sun touches it in both temperature and colour. It seems chilled in shadow. Brown contains such an endless array of colour. Each hair curls, stands, in a slightly different way. Some seem attentive and barely move in the breeze; others, less disciplined, take any excuse lie down for a moment. He moves, unlike a portrait, and I take such endless pleasure in that fact.

"So, how's your course going Norm? You're doing marketing, aren't you?"

His eyes turn toward me again. I would like to fall into them, but I cannot, I have been asked a question.

"Yeah, that's right. It's going okay I suppose - I mean, I haven't failed anything yet."

"That's all you can ask for I reckon."

"What about you? You've almost finished law, right?"

"Yep. Felt like it would never come to a close; but here it is."

"Law is such a waste of time." I close my eyes as George interrupts.

"Oh, is it?" Some of the warmth has vanished from Jason's tone.

"Shut up George, no one cares that you're doing 'the hardest degree the university offers.'" I don't like disagreeing with George very much. He doesn't make it easy though.

"I don't quite recall ever describing it as such." What little warmth resided in George's voice is now gone as well.

"Well, degree doesn't matter anyway: it's more how you use it." Well put Jason. I only think that, because to say it would put George in the kind of mood that is very difficult to get rid of.

"I suppose." George doesn't really suppose. He likely doesn't want to waste any more breath on Jason - he'll save that for complaining to me. Any moment now he'll make some motion that he wants to leave. I can't leave. I'm stuck to the chair. Not really - because then I'd be panicking - more because if I move any further from Jason, I won't be able to smell him anymore.

I never really appreciated smell. Lavender smells nice (such a vile word in its simplicity) and rot not so. It's easy to miss the multi-faceted nature of smells. Jason is how I would describe the smell; others might call it something else - not recognise it. The smell of Jason seems to perfectly capture, on my inner eye, a living, breathing image of Jason. Seeing with smell, that sums it up alright.

George nudges me under the table. He nods his head slightly away from Jason when I look at him. He wants to leave. Unfortunately, George doesn't do discrete. Anyone covered head to toe in spots and bright white fur will struggle with it a bit. Jason has seen, the all too convenient purpose with which he looks in the opposite direction gives it away. I shake my head at George. I wish Jason could have seen that.

George scowls.

I don't feel like scowling. I feel like smiling, so I do.

***

"You're always standing up to self-interested know-it-alls like Jason." George, as I predicted, is not very happy. He's blushing slightly from the effort required to be this annoyed, and the fur on top of his head is standing up straight.

"Jason isn't self-interested, he's nice; And where'd the 'always' come from - if I recall correctly, this is the first time."

"Well, you see, the thing is... I mean, it's more so an expression..." That did it. When someone logical makes an illogical argument, combat it with a logical one.

The sun is setting now, I did eventually have to get up of the chair and leave - George was making staying exponentially more difficult with time. He stopped talking entirely, then started exhaling heavily when Jason started talking. By the time we left he seemed to be doing angry elephant impressions every time Jason opened his mouth.

The water is different again. I tell George, but he isn't listening. The rich red and neutered yellows - finally visible without burning one's eyes - mix with a deep purple that comes from some place no one has ever been. Pink. Rawness and fragility. Spreads out across the sky and gives way to a sinister black. Only the weak twinkles of awakening stars suggest anything less unnerving. The water reflects, enhances, mixes, and deepens. Like some huge contorting, living piece of flesh, spread out below the sky.

By the time I reach my house, the sky will be a suffocating black. I will look out to the water. The horizon will have vanished and a million stars will reflect across it as water blends with sky. It is as though you could step out over the edge of the earth and float in an endless expanse of nothing.

***

Falling asleep is what I would like to be doing right now.

Jason.

I cannot sleep, he is on my mind. Something stirs, whether of within me or something more abstract, I know not.

I stare at the featureless ceiling, barely visible in the faint moonlight.

I close my eyes and he is there. I can smell him; a warm scent, slightly sweet like cinnamon and wet bark - earthy and comforting.

***

Walking is what I am doing. The café is where I am heading to, the university is where I am heading from. I must tell myself this so that I will do it. Without consciously willing myself a step forward at a time I will stop. Jason is who I am wanting to see. Why? No clue. George is in the library; he looked a little grumpy when I told him I had to go - we usually study together to make it all more bearable. I feel a little bad, partly because I left George behind, partly because I really should be studying. George is good at talking and studying at the same time. Me, not so much; things have begun to pile up a little. Jason said yesterday he always stops for lunch at that café. It is lunch time now; he should be there.

I can see the café. I can see him. I stop breathing, walking. My heart, I am acutely aware of it now, wants to stop - to preserve this moment. I take another step. I wave at Jason; he returns the gesture. I sit down. I didn't really think this far ahead. In my mind things happened naturally from here. Natural is not the best way to describe me right now.

"So, second time in a week. You got separation anxiety?" The question unsettles me for a moment, am I seeming desperate, strange? It's only a joke. I think.

"Well, considering I haven't seen you anywhere except this café in the past week, I suppose I could ask a similar question."

He laughs, I melt.

"Well I've got one exam left - it's 6 weeks away and my professor has given up teaching, so there's not much else to do."

"Wish I could say the same. I only picked marketing because everyone said it was easy money."

"No such thing I'm afraid."

"Yeah." I laugh a little. "If only."

Sometimes, something passes between two people. A moment of mutual understanding. Eyes locked on eyes, they divulge one another without saying a word. I look at Jason. He looks at me. I can feel something surround me, pass between us, that is not of particle nature. Does he feel it too? If only I were to grab it now, to take advantage of it and tell him... tell him what? I haven't a clue; and as soon as the moment arrives, it has passed.

"You're second last year though, right?"

"Yeah." I respond indifferently, seemingly unaware of the visceral thing I have just experienced.

"It gets easier."

I nod and smile a little. This signals I feel a little weight taken off my shoulders; if anything the weight seems to have increased since I sat down here.

"So, do you live on the bay or what?" A Question about me, I revel in it.

"Yeah, just a small apartment I share with my sister down there." I point to one direction the street travels in, away from the café. "What about you?"

"Oh, just with my parents for the moment. I don't have a lot of money."

"It's tricky scraping together enough to rent out here. My sisters graduated now so she makes enough to foot most of the bill." Silence, lasting less than a moment, stretches out infinitely; a chance is presented to me, I take it. "I can show you around some time, she's out quite a bit and wouldn't mind anyway. Just if you want to get a night away from your parents or something."

"Yeah, that'd be great. Law has been a little difficult, so I haven't got out as much as I'd like."

The gamble has yielded, to an extent, for now.

We sit and talk away the dreary sun which drops increasingly below the sea, ushering in the dark. It's cool and the wind lightly reminds us of that fact. We lean closer to one another across the table to hear over the noises of the night life - cheering, dancing and music. His breath caresses my nose and warmly cuts through the crude chill.

***

We walk to my house, in the dark. On one side are the tired row of beach shacks and businesses, on the other is an expanse of nothing. I am not alone this time. Words do not pass between us; I don't feel I really need them right now.

***

We sit on the couch. It's not used to two people. He's sitting closer to me than what I thought he would. Sexual tension. I've never needed that word before. He's touching me, only just, but that makes it all the more deliberate. My fur stands on end, it crackles and vibrates, almost, with a simple touch. Has Jason crept closer to me? It's hard to tell; It's hard to think. I look at him. Our eyes, merge. I let myself fall into him this time. We lean yet closer. Closer still. My mouth, my nose, meet his. Taste is not the right sense for this experience, it does not capture it, do it justice. Warmth and moving, living flesh locked in some dance to a silent music that only the participants can hear. His breath, warm, comforting, entices me; flows over my fur. My hands, on his back, feel the curve of his spine, the eloquent and purposed form of his shoulder blades. Our legs, I don't know which belongs to who, are crossed over one another.

How long did this last. I haven't the faintest clue. Time melts away, like standing in nothing, there is no concern for anything, but that which is happening immediately.

Jason's shirt is gone. He looks better without it anyway. Mines missing as well. I can see his chest, his stomach. Matted fur covers and exemplifies its rise and fall. His back, the light patch above his tail, brown - how exquisite, how diverse. I can hear his heart, in sync with mine, in a rhythm of contentment.

I'm on him, or he's on me, we merge. Every inch of my fur contacts every inch of his. I am lying on a living, breathing thing.

I touch him, trailing down his spine, past the light patch, to his tail, below. He shivers. He sighs.

He is on me. I am below him.

His stomach, warm, sits upon my spine; like a warm summer's night, embracing.

His hand travels down my chest, to my stomach, I hold my breath; my pelvis. He moves his hand to my... I shudder, sensually. The breath escapes me almost against my will.

Pleasure. I know what it feels like. It ripples across me, over me, like waves, emerald green, meeting and caressing the shore.

I am bared to him and he to me; we keep no secrets.

My heart's beat deafens, mixed with the throb of pleasure, delivered in manageable amounts so as to not send me over the edge. What edge?

He is in me. I know because I feel it. The very sense ripples from below my tail, up my spine. He exhales, suddenly, without thought. Neither of us are thinking.

Rhythm; that is what we both move to. The rhythm of blood moving within you. The rhythm of sensual fulfilment becoming closer and closer to unbearable with each moment.

His hand glances across my penis - though the action is not contained to it - it moves outwards, the resultant feeling of contact, to my stomach and chest.

I cannot see, only feel.

My breath shortens.

As does his.

I am immersed, deeply within him.

To the very bone I feel him.

Ecstasy.

My sight seems to fade, spots appear on my eyes.

Sound, I can hear. We moan or groan or something in between. Who does what I haven't a clue?

An undeniable uplift in pleasure occurs. As a sensual being I crave it, bask in it. From head to toe something flows through me, from me. The warm liquid is on Jason's hands, the couch. I'd better clean that...later.

Content. That is the emotion that overwhelms me. Pleasure radiates from Jason; I am happy that he feels it. It too flows from him, into me. To be satisfied, that is what I feel.

He slumps onto the couch, half on me, half next to me. His snout buried in my neck. Breathing, how wondrous it is when you feel it from another.

The couch can wait.

***

Summer is meant to be ending, but it seems to be remaining in my eyes. The days grow shorter, but it was never the light that defined it anyway; it was the warmth. The warmth that touches parts that feel the cold the most.

The sun bares down upon us, relentless despite the forecasted drop in temperatures. George is sweating slightly, panting in between his usual unbroken drone.

"You know Jason, I always said - and Norm can vouch for this - that you were the most deserving of that A. I'm just at a complete loss for how you did it, and to think mine must be wrong - it makes no sense."

Jason looks at me and smiles. I smile too, it can't be helped. We walk hand in hand down the beach, listening to George's claims that he was always a big fan of Jason's.

"And I told Norm, Reg was clearly just jealous that he didn't quite achieve the same level of work..."

I have done an awful lot of feeling lately, of emotions that were vague and unclear to me. Like stepping into nothing, I felt lost pursuing them. Jason, I found him hard to forget, felt something concerning him...

Love.

That's what it was.