Foremost, a Man

- and then she took his hand in hers, pressing it to her side even as her pretty, bare feet drew him into a dark cantina where she leaned toward him at a table for two as a wizened, thinly-bearded man with compassionate eyes poured iced sangria into tall glasses. Above the table a dust-coated ceiling fan wheezed delicious coolness down upon his soaked shirt, and perspiring skin. Her plump, pink lips cooed to him in lovely, if nonsensical words, as if to engage a child. He slouched in his seat, the sun having drained his energy. He drank the sugary wine she coddled to his lips, and he bit into the orange and lemon slices offered him from delicate fingers. Those slices had been sweeter even than the wine, and had burst with sugary syrups when punctured by his teeth, although her fingers were quick to wipe the stray juices from the corners of his mouth and slow to linger there after, as though tempted to enter.

He could still recall it all, forty years later, the way her eyes never left his. The tiny beads of sweat like bubbles on her upper lip. The wooden banana crates stacked haphazardly against the back wall and ready to tumble. The smell of frying tortillas, and the sounds of happy laughter from the sidewalk. He recalled with shame the pleasing waves of desire, guilt, and inebriation that flooded him. He remembered his heart racing as it never had before, leaving his head light, and his groin heavy. He remembered a desperate urge to get away, and an even stronger urge to stay, but mostly he remembered the bare foot that found it's way up to his lap under the table, it's toes kneading him, massaging away any remaining resolve.

He remembered more wine, and a dark, narrow stairway with loose, creaking steps. He remembered rounded, swaying hips barely concealed beneath a summer skirt. He remembered eager eyes turning to ensure he was still following, their excitement feeding his. He remembered a dimly lit room with dust hanging in the valance. He recalled soft lips, and a beckoning tongue. He remembered pressing his own lips tight to keep the tongue out, but it had pried and probed before slithering serpent-like inside. He recalled dueling with it before succumbing, whipping and lashing it with heavy breaths.

He remembered the way her bare skin felt against his, cool and soft, how the darkness of it contrasted with the pale of his own. He had absorbed her smells of perspiration, and her woman’s cassolette, exhaling them reluctantly. He recalled with a thundering pulse the way her nipples had caressed his thighs, and his chest, and he recalled bursting directly before he died.

Reverend Gregory Thompson had awakened from that death on a beach bathed in a tangerine twilight; shoeless, wallet-less, with even his clerical collar gone, but those things were of little matter then. Couples walking the beach, lovers holding hands eyed him without approaching; curious people, perhaps even concerned people. He had hurried past them to the water where he attempted to wash away the smells, the feels, and the sins, only to discover that some things neither sand nor saltwater can ever scour away -