The end.
And from that, a new beginning. The
beginning of something new. Something not tried before. Untried but not untrue.
Their fifteen minutes of fame done now,
done and gone. Lost and gone forever. Good riddance. Sayonara. Here’s your Jags
hat, your watch cap, your fuzzy hat with funny earflaps, what’s your hurry? One
more thing to tick off on the checklist of life. Andy Wharhol, we’re so done
here.
So the flashing lights and intrusive
mikes, gone to be shoved in someone else’s unsuspecting life for a while. The
paparazzi and mamarazzi turning their Cyclops camera eyes on a different soul,
turning it inside out, upside down, round and round, like a merry-go-round. The
carousel of life.
And it wasn’t until Naomi left, was
safely discharged into the dutifully welcoming arms of the paid professionals
who serviced the airlines. Was past the ticket counters, the metal detectors,
the duty free, beyond the check points, past all waving—off site and out of
sight, out of even sentinel sight. Out of sight. Out of mind. Perhaps out of her
mind. Away from the scene. The scene of her crime.
It wasn’t until they’d returned home—not
to “the loft”, but to “home”, their home. Home free. Home safe, safe and
sound—Puget Sound, without a sound, not even one Jim could hear.
It wasn’t until they’d eaten the last of
the food she’d prepared, prepared with love, detached with love, interfered with
love. A ritual disposal of food before a fast: Lent, Easter, Passover, Yom
Kippur. Good food, good eats, good taste, good feast. Fit for a king, fit for a
Sentinel. Fit for a Guide. Fast and rebirth. Gone. All gone—so even Jim couldn’t
taste it anymore.
They’d opened the windows and aired the
loft, tossed Jim’s ruined pants, Blair’s clothes stained with blood of fallen
comrades. Rid their home of the stench of anger, pain, loss and loneliness,
re-scenting with special Japanese sage that had proved anti-allergenic. Plus
Lysol.
Showered, shaved, shed of all the
worldly cares and dares and layers. Then sight, sound, smell, taste—all
piggy-backed on touch as Sentinel and Guide reconnected, re-joined and rejoiced.
Loved and made love. Made everything right between them again.
Sentinel moving slowly, lowly, over,
under, inside, outside. Guide turning, taking, giving, grasping, gasping. Skin
glossy in gleaming candle light. The flame’s red glare tattooing tanned flesh.
Short curls swept almost flat with sweat and spit and semen and love.
Sage-scented candles, lemon-flavoured slick, tantalizing Guide and Sentinel
alike.
And at last, not Sentinel, not Guide.
Just two men. Lovers. Beloved. Jim and Blair. Blair and Jim.
With this brass ring, I thee wed.
End.
