A Fine Cast of Characters - J. Dane Tyler [44]
She looked right at me. I was alone on the beach, so I know she was looking at me. There was no one else to look at. She shone with the moonlight playing on her wet skin, glistening and shimmering. She was like a sea shell gathered from a tide pool, radiant and glowing and spectacular. I wanted so much for the lighthouse beacon to flash our way, to race over the beach by some mysterious accident, to stray off course and wander over her body. I wanted the light to linger on her, the way I wanted my hands to linger on her, to trace her curves, her shapes, her contours. I wanted to know her, all of her, every inch, every detail. But the lighthouse didn’t cooperate, and I had to be content with the moon, shining full behind her.
Music emanated from her then, a symphony, the most wonderful song. It would’ve made birds weep with envy, made Beethoven and Mozart give up trying to create melodies and harmonies, made the angels gasp in start, and it made my heart slam to a stop in my chest.
She spoke, and the music was her voice.
“Hello,” she sang to me, and it was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard. I wanted to cry with its beauty, the way it touched my soul, the way it held me.
Instead I smiled awkward and gawky, and answered her. “Hi.” It sounded like the braying of an ass compared to her voice.
“Have we met?”
She was so tender, so sweet with her query. I smiled again, and felt gooseflesh rise on my neck and arms. I was grateful then for the moonlight’s pale glow, because she couldn’t see me blush.
“I don’t ... think so,” I stammered. “But we can change that now. I’m ...”
“No, don’t. Don’t tell me. I know your name.”
I sat stunned, confused. “You do?”
“Yes. I’ve always known your name.”
“I don’t ... I don’t understand. You just asked if we’ve met.”
She tinkled a laughed then, a lilted, gentle, gold bell chime. It was like the sound of a child’s laugh, free and unrestrained, but rich and throaty, sexy and desirable. I wanted to take her in my arms, hold her and kiss her, wrap myself in her like I would wrap myself in a blanket.
She tipped her head, and for a fleeting moment I thought she read my thoughts, or sensed my desire, or smelled my lust. She only smiled again.
“Sometimes a mystery is fun. Don’t you think?”
“But you said you knew my name.”
“How do you know I don’t?”
“Tell me what it is, then.”
“Not now,” she smiled. “Soon. Not now. I know you watch the ocean, and I know you wonder at its power and majesty. I know you’re drawn to it, like a moth to a flame, without understanding why or how. You don’t question the longing. You come, sit, stare. Feel it.”
“Feel it?”
“The connection. You feel it, don’t you? That thread tying you to the sea, that vibrating cord that binds you to it. Like an umbilical cord, feeding you, nourishing you, drawing you near, keeping you near, holding you bound.”
I was nodding as she spoke, and continued after she finished. She could have told me the moon above her head was green cheese and I would have nodded. She could have told me I was growing a sausage from my chin and I would have nodded. I wanted nothing more than the sound of her voice. It was like listening to the ocean waves break on the beach. There was a comfort, a soothing, a demulcent effect to it.
“I feel it too. I always have.”
“I ... I didn’t see you swimming. You surprised me. I thought I was alone in the cove.”
“No? You were somewhere else, perhaps. Out to sea. Far from here.”
I nodded again. She was like a siren. I couldn’t resist her. “Maybe. I’m here now.”
“Yes.” She smiled and moved closer.