LDR,  Short Fiction,  Wicked Wednesday

Blueberry Pancakes

It would be a beautiful afternoon, cloudless, bright and blue. I’d check into our hotel room around the time your plane arrived, knowing you’d have security to go through and the short cab ride before you’d swipe your card in the door and it would close behind and suddenly we’d be breathing the same air in the same room. I imagine the moment would be imperfect, your text from the lobby would be delayed or I’d have had a moment of anxiety, standing and sitting and pacing and sitting again, “acting casual” but rushing to the door at the last moment, both of us freezing in action as our eyes meet in the hall.

It’s a bit of a blur after that, if I’m honest, a surreal kaleidoscope of sensations and observations; how you smell, how I feel in your arms, the laughing and crying and whispering, jet lag and anticipation and magic and awe. We’d take our time, until we didn’t, moving softly in synch, then galloping furiously to ecstatic ends. The day would slide by and the night would bring a new tide of passion and weeping and joy and a million, tiny moments unfurling in a hot fog of yes and oh yes, of more more more and never stop.
Then in the morning, dozy lovemaking and blueberry pancakes.
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