Mourning Ecstasy (An excerpt)

Myra’s eyes opened from the warm sun peeking through the shade, and she thought about finally investing in shudders. She picked up her phone from the side table and the time read, “5:17 AM.” She sighed heavily and decided to open up Instagram and waste some of the 2 hours she had left to lay in bed. Carlos and she had a funeral service to attend at 10 am, and Myra had agreed to pick up the deceased’s 20 year old nephew. Myra thought to herself, “I still can’t believe she asked us to pick up her kid, so she didn’t have to take a right turn on her way to the funeral home.”

Scrolling through the usual vanity and celebrity breakdowns, her blurred vision seemed to sharpen for a second when she saw a post from Vaniteux, Will’s restaurant. A picture of Will, Riley and Patrick, all obviously stoned, and what seemed like attempting to look “cool.” The goal was not achieved. Patrick’s skin was flawless, dusted with pigmentation and a five o’clock shadow. Myra examined the picture and took a screenshot. She wanted to look at it again, with her lenses in. Her heart raced and her other senses stirred while she stared at the image of Patrick.

“Awe come on. Is this really how we are going to start the day?” Myra cried out in a morning fatigued chagrin. She riggeled with aggravation at the thought that her morning would be invaded by such deranged unfulfillment. She threw her phone to the end of her bed but that recent image of Patrick was stuck in her mind’s eye now, and it wasn’t ever going to leave her. She rested her arm across her eyes and tried to fall back asleep, but the heat from the sun beat down on her wrist, making sleeping impossible. The smell of spring dampness in New England forced nostalgia. “Fucking sunbeam.” She said out loud and just like that, her favorite memory began.

Myra’s mind was falling fast into this echo. It would be more beneficial to fight off these ghosts of Patrick, however, this morning she wouldn’t exercise that restraint.

“Fine! Go ahead!” She said out loud knowing she had plenty of time to commit to a fantasy before the reality of the day. There was no point to the struggle. She wasn’t going to get out of bed yet and as long as she was laying down with her eyes closed, this treasured souvenir of Patrick would be merciless in its attempts to invade her rest. She remembered a morning two decades ago that changed everything, for both of them. But it wasn’t until years later that Myra really understood what it was and wondered if Patrick thought about that morning the way she did.

Her heart beat with anticipation while her mind made that journey to that morning 20 years ago. Patrick had spent the night after an evening of playful sex. This wasn’t unusual. However, when Myra awoke she was facing a sleeping Patrick, breathing in her face. She was confused, because it didn’t bother her. Eyes open, her vision still sharp and clear. These were the years before Keratoconus began to ravage her sight. The colors she remembers are much more vibrant than the ones she sees now. She interrupted her own fantasy with the thought that maybe it’s the clarity of vision that she actually misses. There was no way to fight the deterioration, so she knew to put that thought out of her head. Back to Patrick.

Myra watched Patrick sleep. She never took pleasure in watching a lover sleep before, and rarely did she ever let one spend the night. Had they not both collapsed from hours shameless dissipation, he may have made his way home. But Myra didn’t mind that he was there, breathing in her face, sleeping in her bed, his head sunken into her pillow. Her emerald green plaid comforter lay just below his naked shoulders. The sunlight streamed through the side of the window where the nicotine stained, white shade didn’t cover. His full lashes shined golden strawberry in the natural spotlight and his cheeks were still adolescent in appearance. But his neck and shoulders we that of a man.

Cinnamon colored freckles colonized his olive skin. Myra thought then and now that his skin is the most exquisite and unlikely combination of two dominant traits. Her finger tip gently pet his eyelash and then followed the bridge of his nose to the tip. Her hand descended to his lips and gently brushed them while she thought about kissing them. He lay there, still sleeping. Her hand traveled to the part of his back exposed from the blanket. Myra tenderly traced the freckles into patterns that she meditated into invisible designs. She thought it would be interesting to draw letters in his skin and see which lover’s cipher would be the one to wake him from his sleep.

Her left hand positioned itself between his shoulder blades. She used her middle finger and spelled out, “Good Morning.” He didn’t move. She then spelled out, “Freckles are sexy.” His breathing got a bit stronger. Myra smiled while she continued to write, “I want you.” A deep breath raised his back with a deep breath, but still his eyes were closed. “I need you.” She wrote instinctively and immediately wondered why she did. Patrick opened his eyes, quick, and then looked into her’s without fear or hesitation. He didn’t move. In his skin she wrote, “Yes.”

Patrick kissed her, but this was no morning kiss. This was a kiss after hours of flirting, a kiss after seduction, a kiss of desire. It was the kind of kiss that people usually have to work for. He kissed Myra this way because it was the only way he ever wanted to kiss her. He moved on top of her, and for once, she didn’t mind. Myra was and is opposed to the missionary position. The feeling of powerlessness killed all arousal in Myra. Patrick and she discussed this subject matter ad nauseum yet, this morning, she left trepidation to abandon. Trust replaced fear for the first (and arguably “only”) time in her life.

He was heavy, but not burdensome. Naked together, her legs wrapped around his, her ankles resting on the inside of his lower calves. Patrick’s arms were wrapped around Myra’s body, holding her tight to him, and she strung her arms through his grasping his back, pressing her hands into him, as he moved inside her. Myra moved her hands from his back to his face. Eyes open, they kissed each other. He didn’t need to touch her breasts, she didn’t need to be on top, what was happening was more than sexual pleasure. For these two people this was wanting to be close, and only to each other.

There was no sound in the room but theirs, and Patrick’s breathing ignited her to breathlessness. They stopped kissing and looked at each other, her holding his face, his chest pressed into her breasts, the suffocation of movement respired a new definition for the oldest pastime. Her head felt lighted with rush but not unfocused. Patrick submitted to the beast he hides and let it take over. For the first time he made no attempt to deny or restrain it. Myra could feel this rush move to her neck, her back, her body, and she pushed her pelvis into his. The two never broke gaze while their bodies made every effort to stay convolute. Her fingers massaged his head, the feeling of his coarse, crimson curls between them only inflamed intemperance. Her body began to shake, every muscle contracted in uncharted pleasure and it enraptured Patrick.

Myra thought to herself that this must be what inspired the myth of heaven. Patrick kissed her, and she held onto his back with her left hand and had a palm full of curls in the right. His arms wrapped around her, his biceps pressing against her ribcage, as if he was trying to keep her from falling. Myra had never felt what was happening to her body, and Patrick never felt a woman so completely. Intrinsically they both sacrifice their insecurities to this undiscovered ethos, and still, neither spoke a word. They kissed with the same glutinous rhythm and no errant thoughts intruded. It was them and no one else existed. She belonged to him and he knew he had possessed her when she looked at him and said, “Patrick.”

Patrick replied, “Myra.”

They kissed again with the recognition of humanity and their libidos released them from this trance. They lay together, still connected and unmotivated to separate. Myra gently stroked Patrick’s hair and he lay his head into her neck. He breathed with exhaustion, his chest pushing against hers while she inhaled the triumphant scent of him. She held him, pet him, adored him. Patrick monopolized this behavior in Myra’s, and she wondered if he knew that. She wanted him to know that.

“Patrick. You’re a unicorn.” She said holding him to her, still petting him. She felt his mouth moving on her chest, making a smile.

Patrick replied, “You’re My ‘Ra.’ ” Myra was captivated at being compared to a god.

“It’s funny we both went mythical, but not biblical.” Myra said.

“Some people would say they are the same thing.” Patrick replied. The prospect of an interesting conversation propelled Myra’s words.

“Patrick. Spend the day with me?” Myra asked and was made uneasy at the vulnerability in her voice.

“I can’t I was supposed to be at work a hour ago.” He moved his body as he spoke so he could look at her. She kissed him. “I want to stay.” He kissed her, “But I can’t I have to go to work.”

“Call in to work. Stay with me today.” Myra playfully demanded. Patrick’s sense of responsibility stopped him from making decisions based on desire. The fact he was late to work already was a true testament of the kind of force that morning spell had on him.

“Myra. You know I can’t. It’s my job.” He said to her. The fog of passion was lifting from the room.

“Of course, your job. The sanctum suck-torum. A controlled, monitored, guided and hugely expensive place to achieve transcendence. Which, is the exact opposite of what you achieve in that environment. It’s a place rich assholes go to be around other rich assholes to meditate where none of the peasants can bother them. There is no transcendence in a playpen filled vegan cookies and posh excuses.” Myra’s spite for the Saraswati Center was never hidden. Its cult like nature and Patrick’s naivety were a menacing combination that weighed on Myra’s mind.

“Come on, Myra. It’s my job, and I love it. They are always complimenting me, they pay me well, and i like being in that environment.” Patrick said with honesty.

“Its a fucking cult.” She said brashly. Patrick moved from on top of her, kissed her and said. “I gotta go. I’ll call you on my lunch break.”

She wondered to herself why he was going to call her on his lunch break, but was gitty at the thought of it. That bothered her. Myra pulled him to her to kiss her again, and said, “Or you can stay here and we can have each other for lunch.” She touched his face. “Stay with me.”

Patrick started to bend to her desire, and kissed her again. “Myra, I want to stay. You have to know how much I want to stay here, in bed with you.” He brushed her dark brown, hair back from her ear and kissed her cheek and then her mouth again. He moved to get off the bed and Myra leaned upward using her arm as support. She wanted to ask him to come back tonight, but the rejection perceived as voluntary immediately closed her off. It was the reaction of a jealous child, and her reflection on this memory was marked with shame over such stubborn defensiveness. He gathered his clothes from the floor and put his oversized jeans on and balled up his boxers to put in his pocket.

“Flying commando?” Myra teased. Patrick walked over to Myra, white tshirt, jeans, and sweater in his hand. He bent forward and said, “Well, he’s pretty tuckered out. I’m going to let him take it easy.” He kissed her. She pulled him to her.

“I gotta go.” He said in a laugh.

“You have no idea how fucking gorgeous you are, do you?” She said as she held his chin and looked at his lips. She kissed him, he blushed and smiled and after putting his shoes on he walked out of her bedroom. Myra heard him close her front door and run down the staircase. When the large green door that lead from the hallway to the staircase on the street, Myra looked out of her shade at the foot of her bed, to watch Patrick get into his car. She saw him running to the drivers side door of his small, blue honda and as he put the key in the lock to open it, he looked up at Myra’s window and saw her watching him. He smiled at her and blew a kiss. It sickened her that she motioned to catch it. He got into his car and drove away.

Myra was released from reverie by the sound of Carlos ringtone. It was now 6:15am.

“What?” Myra said when she answered.

“What’s your problem? Where you flicking the bean to 1980’s Dennis Quaid?” Carlos said while drinking his morning espresso.

“A. No woman limits herself to the 80’s when it comes to Dennis Quaid. B. If I was masterbating I wouldn’t have picked up the phone.” She said while she fought off the haunting memory of the only vaginal orgasm she has ever had.

“So...I can hear it. What’s up?” Carlos asked with genuine concern.

“Nothing, really it’s nothing. I saw a picture of Patrick on Instagram and it reminded me of something, that’s all.” She said as she sat up and headed to the kitchen.

Carlos gasped, “Oh no...The Unicorn.”

“I wish I had never told you about it. I’m fine. I’m getting in the shower now. I’ll call you when I’m out.” Myra said on her way to the bathroom.