Counting the Freckles

I was hung over.  Jesus, was I hung over.  The lupines whizzing by the blue Honda Civic blurred into a streak of watercolor purple, and I shut my eyes and smelled her in the passenger seat.  A woman’s shampoo and dial soap–nothing ostentatious, just lilac and lavender.  I feared the silence.  During the quiet, I felt the immutable hammer stroke of three weeks prior.  I coursed with adrenaline then, so the tensile strength in my wire bones held.  Now, nerves, anxiety, timpani palpitations gone, I shivered in the dull reverberations.
            Three weeks prior, emboldened by a night of heavy drinking and months of silent longing, I nudged a boulder down a mountain.  I, in the grand tradition of those who hide from the foreign and frightening world of spoken word, had translated an avalanche into a text message.  That’s it.  I’m head over heals for you.  Goodnight Mitchy.  Sodden with Irish whiskey and British beer, I’d neglected the comma in that final sentence.  In hindsight, that oversight was appropriate, a touch of foreshadowing, a fact I already knew.
            Now, I was newly twenty-two, a November rose with a single petal remaining, fearing a stiff winter breeze.  She was a whirlwind returned from France, and I wondered how the threadbare scenery of rural Wisconsin summertime struck her right then.  An excited gasp opened my eyes and ended my reverie.  Did you see that? she asked, taking a hand off the driving wheel and gesturing towards the white pines on our right.  I shook my head. Really?  She sounded disappointed.  That was the biggest owl I’d ever seen.  My face must have betrayed my skepticism, because she said, Yeah, I know, it’s broad daylight.  But it was an owl.  I know what an owl looks like.  I nodded agreeably, and coughed to cover my smile.
            The backseat of her car was covered in organized stacks of a teacher’s tools.  Thin, brightly-colored books cut into odd shapes, a fake clock with movable hands and cartoonish numbers, a plastic case filled with several colors of slime called The Young Scientist Club.  She would excitedly gesticulate as she described her students, showcasing their inscrutable drawings that papered her wall like a museum curator. Now the kids in Milwaukee beckoned her; she had lived her for four years, and only now, as her urban pilgrimage became imminent, did I understand the perils of procrastination.
            She parked the car and unbuckled her seatbelt. Ready? she asked. Oh god, just ten more minutes. With my head still propped against the window, I shut my eyes and pantomimed searching for the snooze button. She unbuckled my seatbelt, walked around to the passenger side, and opened my door. Get your ass out. We’re going to celebrate my last day in town. I gazed around at my grandpa’s woodlands before protesting, But we’re not even in town. I got out anyway, and we linked arms before setting off.
            We were mute as we took to the trail, allowing the verdant wild to speak for us. The orchard on our left buzzed and hummed. Pear and apple blossoms hung on trees like mother-of-pearl on a wedding dress. A red-breasted robin hopped about on a willow tree, weaving in and out of its sea green petticoats. The sugar maples and beech trees nodded in deference to us, and our smiles genuflected back. For a few moments, the granny smith world lost its bruised much and rotten spots, and it shone with its ripened, tangy sweetness. She rested her head on the side of my shoulder, saying, I couldn’t ever forget this place. I shivered.
            When we walked the oak savanna and saw the adolescent leaves flutter in the breeze, I explained to her, this is god’s Palace of Versailles. She whispered back in amazed reminiscence, You should’ve been there.  I didn’t tell her, but while she was away, I read about France.  I admired the Degases and Caillebottes, stood before the pyramid at the Louvre, sunk my bare feet into the surf of Omaha Beach.  I bathed in the lamplight of Montmartre, had coffee with the ghosts of a lost generation, and fired a volley at the shout of Bonaparte. I did all those things, and pretended I was there.
            The path narrowed, so I stood aside and let her lead.  With her in front of me, I could watch openly, unafraid of staring.  Her untamed, brunette hair always reminded me of a cresting, crashing wave.  When she became distracted by conversation, she would comb the long tresses with her fingers.  My fingers always itched to do the same.  I would compromise and stroke my beard.  We probably looked ridiculous, a pair of people happily chatting away, grooming themselves with their hands like monkeys.
            Broken raspberry vines bristled with jags and thorns, while their green fruit awaited rain, sunshine and time.  By August, those same thickets would crawl with droning insects, all hungry for the rotten fruit.  Timing is everything.  A tree swallow alighted upon a sugar maple bough, so I knew we had neared the pond.  Chee-deep, chitty-eep, he chastised us, his blue wings tight against his pristine white chest.  Chee-deep, chitty-eep, she responded, somehow with dignity.  An old friend? I questioned, my head tilted slightly to the side.  The best, she responded solemnely.  We laughed loudly, and the bird took to the humid air.
            The path opened to the pond like the mouth of a river to an ocean.  She took a deep breath and kept it, her eyes drinking in the water and all its accoutrements.  The waning daylight painted everything golden, from the snowy feathers of the lazily circling swans to the sparkling confetti that surrounded them.  Cattails, calling birds, kicking turtles.  I stopped directly behind her, letting the breeze buffet her hair into my face.  It’s so gorgeous, she murmured, her voice hushed by the scene.  I kept my eyes on her neck, quietly counting the freckles.  Yeah, I said, absolutely beautiful.  I couldn’t see it, but I imagined she smiled.  I imagined everything.