The Glade
It was perfect. The sun arched lazily in the afternoon sky, spreading it glorious, eternal warmth through the pastoral scene. The rich, verdant, grass gratefully absorbed the sun’s bountiful rays and in turn passed the life-giving warmth onto the two that lay that upon that luxurious carpet—it was the perfect circle of existence.
The warm sensation of that thick carpet of vegetation was so natural, he thought. It was the essence of nature, of life, of the womb.
He lay there, propped up on one elbow, half his body on the checked woollen picnic blanket, half on the grass, and regarded the scene. The secluding poplar trees moved in a lazy, gentle dance on the placid breeze, as though they were casting friendly waves of acknowledgment to the two lovers that lay within the sacred circle they formed. The harmonious drone of bees swelled and receded in irregular patterns as the insects set about their important business, intent as they were on their holy task—the creation of life itself. The industrious insects hovered amongst the daisies that covered the field, settling on some particularly delectable specimen, sampling the delights on offer, and passing the gift of pollination in return. It was perfect—a perfect symbiosis of copulation; it was nature, it was purity personified.
He regarded the industry of those small creatures, a warm, half-smile upon his face as he appreciated the moment of understanding, of somehow being one with those tiny creatures. And through this insight, through the psyche of the bees, he understood nature, the oneness of all creation. He could divine eternity.
He turned his head and regarded her once more; his smile broadened as her beheld her perfect visage. She held his gaze for a moment before looking away—coyly he thought—and continued to nibble at one of the delights contained within the picnic basket.
She was beautiful to him. She was perfect. He looked upon her, hypnotised by her splendid beauty. Her deep, dark eyes were illimitable pools containing the most unfathomable mysteries. Her cute nose formed a teasing juxtaposition with her wide, welcoming mouth—a mouth that seemed to tease him as she chewed delicately upon her afternoon tea. He brushed her short fringe back from her pale, feminine forehead and ran his hand through her full, flowing blonde curls.
He struggled to suppress the laugh that attempted to sneak up from the depths of his being and burst into the world. It was not a laugh of humour, or of derision—it would have been a sound of pure joy. But he suppressed it all the same for he did not wish to break the silent bond of understanding that stretched between them - invisible yet tangible—and so disrupt their magical communion. For their silence was perfect—it was holy. Their meaningful silence created a linking, synergistic flow into the pastoral scene they shared, until they became one with it, submerged within its eternal glory.
But it could not last. He had to act and, with one last sip of his wine, he did.
“We have to talk,” he said softly. The pain of breaking the silence between them was almost physical, yet it had to be done. She looked at him, silent, quizzical, awaiting his continued exposition.
“Our … our relationship has reached such a point that we must … we must consider …” He was stumbling over the words, the tongue that had been so lucid, so poetic in his imaginings now became a thing of lead, an anchor leaving his soul bobbing helplessly upon a sea of desire—unable to move closer to the beloved vessel before him. The physical closeness they shared was meaningless—it was the union of the soul that would define their relationship. Panic welled within him. No! He must not fail now!!
“We must consider…” he continued onward, as a man might battle forward into the teeth of a fierce gale, knowing that the warmth of home and family lay ahead of him. He held an image of his perfect destination in mind, and used that warm vision to give him the courage to press on.
“…that the time has come to expand our relationship to the next level, to deepen our intimacy, as it were.”
She glanced away as he spoke the words and for a heart-stopping moment he was sure he had gone too far. Then she returned her beautiful gaze, the coyness in her expression more pronounced. The blatant nature of her affect was an invitation—he was sure of it. She was leading him on, inviting his line of discourse.
He shifted slightly closer to her. She did not retreat; she merely observed him calmly, that same expression on her face. He could see now that it was almost coquettish. It was a lure, and one that he found impossible to resist. Emboldened by her seeming acquiescence he pressed on.
“We have been seeing each other for some time now, and I think I would not be too audacious if I suggested that a certain bond has formed between us. In fact, I would go so far as to say we share certain feelings.”
She moved to speak but he silenced her, an urgent need to deliver his long-practised speech overwhelming his normal delight in hearing hear beautiful voice. “No! Please, I implore you—allow me to finish.”
She retreated into her former silent attentiveness, her adoring gaze upon him.
“I have devoted much of my daytime thoughts to you, and to our relationship, and I have come to the conclusion that I cannot permit this state of affairs to go on.” He moved quickly to forestall any misinterpretation of his words she might have; he could not stand the thought of the slightest panic, of the slightest discomfort, afflicting the breast of his beloved even for the briefest moment. “No, it is not what you might think.”
The time had come.
“If you would forgive me, I would be so bold as to present you with,” as he spoke he fumbled within his waistcoat, “this symbol of my eternal admiration.” For a panicked moment he thought he had forgotten it, but his hand closed upon that small, velvet-covered box—the reassuring solidity of it restoring the calm to his system. Snapping the cover back to expose the icon of his veneration, he proffered the box before her—within his breast his heart beat a rapid, prestissimo tempo in response to the demands of some unseen conductor.
She gazed upon that golden, jewel-encrusted ring with an intense fascination—her eyes, he knew, absorbing not only the physical properties of that small band, but also the symbolic meaning attached to it, buried deep within its being. The fascination written all over her face gave way to uncertainty, and it was then he in turn felt doubt rise within him. No! The voice screamed within him. No, it cannot be! She cannot refuse me!!
Her eyes lifted to meet his, an eternity passed in that short moment as time itself slowed. The mystical dance of the universe that had only a few brief moments before seemed too uplifting to truly comprehend, descended into a sluggish, pained stumble, a mere caricature of its previous beauty—unrecognisable.
She opened her mouth to speak and he knew what she was going to say even before it met his ears.
“Baaaaahhhh!” she said.
Her denial was like a slap in the face. He sat upright with a sudden movement. Startled by his instantaneous change of manner, she bolted—galloping to seek refuge in a corner of the glade. From there she regarded him, chewing thoughtfully on a clump of grass, as though she could not have predicted his outraged response to her cruel denial.
“Bitch!” he cried, leaping to his feet. “How dare you lead me on like that? I’ll show you what happens to little sluts like you!”
He advanced towards her, fumbling with his belt buckle.
“Baaaaahhhh!” she said once more, a note of tired resignation in her voice.