Toby
I once knew a guy named Toby, he always said it was short for October. I believed him for years. I'm gullible like that. But he was a cool guy, so I'd like to think that out there somewhere, there's a guy named Toby, short for October.
Toby was tall and lanky, a slender tree waving in the wind. He wore his soft curly auburn hair long, tumbling around his face like autumn leaves drifting down. Big, kind hazel eyes could turn dark and stormy blue grey, and his smile was quick to come, quick to leave, like the fleeting sun, flirting with its warmth.
He liked instrumental music and heavy metal, the intersection between the two, the tremor of strings, and twang of guitars, the rumble of drums, and the rhythmic pounding of life. A symphony of sweat sliding sonorously from summer to slumber.
In my dreams, I fall into Toby's arms, dancing through swirling leaves. His musky scent mixes with crisp tree bark and sap. I think of the dark scent of roses, the mystery of cloves and cardamom. The tang of impending frost.
I slide my cold hands under his sweater, warming them against his chest. His heart pulses and burns like the first campfire of the season. His heat all the more precious in the chilling air. He cracks a joke, crackling logs release embers and sparks float to the sky. I laugh.
We kiss. I taste. He is sweet, like fresh pressed cider with a bite of salted caramel. I breathe him in and he fills me completely, overwhelming my senses with a growing need. He harvests, carefully tending to every inch, leaving no fruit un-plucked. I am bare. I am satisfied.
Thank you, October.