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Friday fiblet: Simultaneity

“But let there be spaces in your togetherness and let the winds of the heavens dance between you.” — Khalil Gibran

It was at the part where he trailed his right set of fingertips from just below her left clavicle, beside the two little moles, in a curving spiral down the slope of her breast to loop around (but not yet touch) the nipple, his body straight and supported on his left elbow, left hand entwined in the chaotic silky tangle of the hair at her nape. Her head was thrown back, a light patina of sweat just beginning on her throat, her hands on his hips, left leg fully up, right still rising to delicately cage his groin with her own, when the signal glitched and for a painful moment he was alone, bodiless in the static void.

The event itself would have lasted less than a tenth of a millisecond, probably, just a slightly more energetic than usual bit of random cosmic radiation, but it hit in a place that was simply unfortunate for his little human life and hers. It disrupted the tracking of the datastream, just for an unnoticeable blink of time, but the beam was so narrow, so long, and it took a slightly longer blip of time for the system to re-acquire. Even with the finest and fastest correction algorithms in the known universe, that one was long enough for even his poor, slow, human nervous system, barely even tweaked beyond the slapdash lash-up of a few billion years of unintelligent trial and error, to notice and react to… and it did.

He jerked in surprise. Jailene continued to move beneath him in the slow, careful dance they’d grown together. Her right leg was reaching its zenith, her hands cupped and moved inward to grasp his buttocks and pull him in to the sweet cage, her breasts were rising in that deep breath that should have pressed her against him, sealing them together like a single being… but he had flinched at the burst of cosmic chaos into his senses, had bucked up out of the way. Her hands pressed against the front of his pelvis instead, her ankles kicked against his misplaced calves, a space was open between them where cool air rushed, a space with a slight chill on his sweating torso. It was not unpleasant, but it was unexpected.

He tried to recover, moving back in, forcing their bodies together again past the mismatch to regain the accustomed configuration. It was absurd to feel awkward, but he did, and he felt an odd panic; an irreparable rift begin to grow in his timing. Jailene continued to move as she always did – she turned her head to kiss his wrist that grasped her tresses, almost missing, now her long, strong thighs gently squeezed, her left hand slid in a smooth caress up toward the small of his back, her right clenched… he’d overcompensated, it grasped at nothing. He tried to twist his buttock back into her grasp, he’d always loved the gentle digging of her nails at that moment, but his movement made hers fail awkwardly. He was becoming self-conscious. A clock was beginning to run in his head, or a timer rather, counting down to the moment when it would all be lost.

Four hundred thirty million kilometres… closer to four hundred thirty two million now, round trip. Two narrow hurtling cataracts of intimate data, two streams of sensory love cast tightly across that cold deep void, screaming past one another at just shy of eighteen million kilometres per second. That was the speed of love, now, between Jailene and Harold. It had mattered so little in the days of their hot bright youth, when they’d never been even so much as forty thousand kilometres apart… and in these circumstances, no separation at all.

He was getting back in the rhythm now, did not miss his cue when her head made that delightful slow roll, planted the gentle kiss on the crow’s feet at the corner of her eye that she hated so badly but which had a strange intimate grip on his heart, reminding him that this woman, this complex unfathomable amazing being, had chosen to stay with him… he felt her other hand slide up to press along with the first on his shoulders, her ankles cross behind him. Had it already been ten minutes? He drank in the sight of her face, eyes fluttering behind closed lids, luminous in pleasure. Her lips began to open, and obediently he lowered his to hers, carefully, gently. Eleven minutes. He kissed her lips, her cheeks, her eyes… peppered her wide brow and high forehead.

The mathematical clarity he normally experienced constantly was fuzzed for once. Did it depend upon whether only one stream had been interrupted? He might have as much as twenty four minutes, he thought hopefully through a haze. He might feel the blessing of her lips tasting his another three, then her head would turn to the right. A pulse of squeezing would run down from her shoulders to her hands, then leap to the long muscles of her thighs, her heels as she gasped and he strained to merge in her…

At twelve minutes her head jerked, and he felt a jolt as his teeth smashed into his own lips in her startle. She’d done that once when they were sharing the same physical bed, he recalled, making him cut his lip on his own teeth. It had hurt so badly, so surprisingly badly, bringing shocked tears to his eyes! Then they had laughed at their awkwardness, and she had blinked through tears of sympathy, and bit her own lip, hard, and kissed him again with such soft care, and they had feasted on one another’s blood and tears for a long, endlessly bright afternoon beneath a Sun that was large and shone equally for them both.

Of course, there was no real injury now, and the safeties would not allow that much pain to be simulated. “Oh!” she (had, twelve minutes ago) exclaimed, and her own patterns (had) started to diverge, across the gulf of space and time, and he knew that they would have to start over again, that the rhythm had been lost for now… but he also saw her smile, and bite her lip, hard, and he knew that he’d been wrong about at least one thing.

The speed of love was infinite, physics be damned.

~ by BT Murtagh on January 31, 2014.

fiblet, fiction, Writing