The First Time

The first time I saw him I was nineteen. It was February and the snow which lay on the farm track was compacted and peppered with mud from the sheep being driven through.  

He was a shy but complicated twenty one year old. His dark brown eyes told me things his lips never could. In truth, I hadn't even noticed him the very first time, though he had seen me. My horse passed him on the narrow lane which led to the farmhouse but riding side saddle and talking with my companion, we walked by unaware. That night he made a sketch of me from memory; the charcoal crumbling under gentle pressure and staining his fingertips. He called me Tesoro, meaning treasure in Italian. I was the ruby in his crown, the most precious of all things. It would be days before we would finally stand before one another, naked and free to be whatever versions of ourselves we chose. He traced a finger across my jawline and down my neck, stopping at my collar bone as if he were smudging the charcoal lines of my body. When we kissed it was as though every cell of my being became his and his became mine. When we lay together, everything beyond our painting's edge disappeared and the universe became small enough to light with a candle. He was freedom. I was his island. 

My path in life was not my own to walk. I was not free to choose my company, not free to simply fall in love. Everything had a plan, nothing was left to chance. Except for him. He was pure, beautiful chance.