mry writes

*a story fragment*

In the heat of mid-summer, the heart of the sunny season, Sandy became pregnant. Sam was involved, in the usual way. Sandy and Sam didn’t plan it; they didn’t prevent it. And at the time, they didn’t regret it.

Regret came later. Regret eventually arrived, huffing and steaming, belching forth smoke and cinders like a great black steam locomotive. And when regret arrived, Sandy was alone at the station.

Impregnation and conception occurred on Mont Royal, after an evening at the Montreal Jazz Festival. The actual moment was stimulated by a long slow sunset after a long slow evening of jazz, facilitated by an uncorked bottle, and encouraged by a prolonged period of nuzzling and snuggling.

At Kondiaronk Belvedere, near the summit of the Mont, Sandy leaned on the rail, looking down on the city lights sparkling in the night. The night was warm and dark, with that mysterious aura that nature at night reveals. She stood near the end of the plaza, under the darkling shadows of slowly moving trees rooted below the rail and extending whispering arms skyward.

Moving as soft as a night shadow, Sam came behind Sandy. He crooked his right arm around her shoulder and across her chest. She sighed into his embrace, shimmying her body lightly in response to his presence pressing against her.

The evening’s music had been invigorating; the walk through downtown, past McGill University, and up the steps to the plaza on Mont Royal, had been further invigorating. The warm night and sparkling city furthered the nights’ enchantment.

“Life is so good. Can we make this night last?”

Sam sighed in response, not wanting to break the mood with banalities. He slipped his hand under the strap of her camisole and down her chest until he was gently cupping her left breast. She leaned back into him and hugged his arm. As he held her, he was more aware than he had ever been that the difference between life and living was both subtle and infinite.

He became aware of his heart beating against her back, even as he sensed her heart beating just beneath the breast he was so tenderly caressing. He became aware of his breathing matching hers, in-out, in-out, in-out in a slow rhythmic dance. He was stirred, and felt a union he had long lacked.

Sam turned Sandy around and kissed her, long and heavy. She responded fully. After uncounted minutes of interlocking lips and entwined bodies, she nodded towards the dark.

Sam picked up the backpack, took her hand, and they headed for the trees near Beaver Lake. The blanket came out, the wine came out, the mood intensified, and they soon found him inside her, both very satisfied. The seeds, the 23 + 23 that became Sara, were met in that moment, in that mood, and in that feeling of union.

And for a time all was good. For a time. But time is fickle, temporal.

And so is goodness. For within Sara’s 46 was corruption.