It’s the sound of handcuffs locking around his wrists. It’s the cops taking him away. Far, far away. For years and years. God, yes, it is the sound of handcuffs. It is calling Gavin, calling Ashli. It is sharing the news that is nearly two decades late. But better late than never. It’s knowing I’m going to be okay. We are all going to be okay.
It feels like one of those quiet afternoons in July that drip molasses and honey from rustic windowsills of brick and barrel. Breadcrumb trails and leftover cheese line the crevices like pixie dust and pirate hooks. My hair is sticking to my balmy lips; a light wind cradles the vineyard hills – a mother and a womb of grapes of purple and black.
It was a slow drip, the way he made love to me. Exhaling sighs into my bones, letting fire mix with marrow. His fingers pulsed into my skin, and I could feel his heart beat under the blue rivers of his wrist. I let him seep into me. The smell of his evening shower, and the grizzly needles along his jawline dotting Braille along my shoulder blades.