June 21st. Summer solstice. The shortest night of the year is upon us.
These days, at this latitude, complete darkness doesn't come before 11 p.m. and leaves around 4 a.m. already.
These days, I enjoy going to bed early, around 10 p.m., when the birds in the garden outside my bedroom window are still chirping away and the sky is tinted a pale pinkish blue. I get undressed, stretch out on top of my bed, grab my kindle and read for a while (currently "City on Fire" by Garth Risk Hallberg, highly recommended).
Once the birds outside have stopped their ruckus and the subsequent silence announces the arrival of dusk, I put my kindle aside and focus on the ridiculously white shade of my naked body almost aglow in the waning light. My dark nipples standing out from the lightness of my skin – I can't help touching them, circling them with my fingers, pinching them, twisting them, pulling on them.
As my hands wander further down on my body, fingers finding the delicious moisture between my legs, I wish there was someone here with me, lying next to me, helping me with the task at hand. Another body to marvel at and explore, another mind to quietly whisper to and share thoughts with in the twilight of the warm summer night. I yearn.
Somewhere in the garden a cat in heat is screaming her desires out into the night and I think: "I feel you, sister …"
I bunch up my comforter and wrap my leg around it, rest my head on a pillow, pretending it might be another warm body. I close my eyes.
Maybe next year, I tell myself before I drift off to sleep. Maybe next year.
I wrote this last year.