park, 1 - midsummer

I am lying on a green towel in the park under a dome of hazy heat on the first day of summer. The white noise of children, grown-up voices, laughter and, for once, decently quiet music blankets me like the ultimate soothing countermeasure to anxiety. I feel the heat down to my bones and I try to become utterly senseless with it and the sensation of the occasional ant busybodying across my midriff. My bikini top is a bit tight from the weight loss, then weight gain, of depression therapy. I don't care right now. The bodies that surround me are inoffensively similar.

I have been debating how to formulate a booty text which I know already won't yield results. I take my mere intention to do so as a huge sign of improvement, medically speaking. But Diana is OCD about her Her-Time on Sundays. And even in my current state, blissed out from my 8 k run in 32 degrees with my runner's high finally kicking in at 6 k, I am not willing to deal with her inevitably turning me down. I want a woman here with me, now, to flirt with me and tell me she is horny for me and run her fingers through my hair.

When I turn on my stomach, a valkyrie has taken a seat underneath one of the rhododendrons across the lawn. One of those women who can leisurely sit around in a lavender bikini and bend over to frown at her notes, which she takes using a pink biro, without any rolls showing on her stomach but the swell of decent, not overly rippling, abs. Her brows are whitened by sun, her hair is up in a short ponytail. Her skin is golden and her arms and legs are a continuation of her athletic torso. Her arms simply do not end. She does not wear a single piece of jewellery. There is not a single tattoo on her. The fact strikes me as extraordinary.

As she leans forward again from a lotus position, bending at the hip textbook-style, to scribble down something into the notebook in front of her, my mind is making up her story already. She is a dancer, I think, or a seriously committed rock climber. Definitely straight, which I deduce from the fact that I like her looks. Studying for an exam, hopefully not as a life coach or a healing practitioner or any of those snake oil peddlers which accompany the instability and insecurity of a world run by narcissistic madmen. Maybe she is studying sports, I decide and grab my water bottle in thought, when she turns half around to stretch a little and sit up on her haunches for a moment and I can see the smooth glide of muscle over muscle on her bare back. Jesus.

Maybe a beach volleyball player?

She is tall and younger than me. Definitely rehearsing something now, as her gaze wanders unfocused into mid distance. Her lips move and I catch some consonants and a bright tone because the breeze is shifting towards me. I like what I hear of her voice. Her gaze is frowny and decisive with concentration, her face without makeup or sunglasses is engaging and decipherable. When she moves back to her notes, she scratches her left leg absently, and her relaxed, loose-shouldered turn looks like I imagine she would in front of a cliff, eying the rock face, weighing her options. Calm. Like a general planning a strategy.

As always with a pair of good shoulders, I feel pulled towards her. I want those arms around me and to be able to lean my forehead against her clavicle. To exhale an exhausted and tired breath into the safety of such arms. And stay there.

I wonder how many people experience this awe for complete strangers. This must occur daily, a thousandfold. And I have no way of making her know. I wish that there is someone to tell her how utterly stunning and gorgeous she is, in her unassuming way.

I have no way of letting her know, but I think she looks strong, and capable, and simply wonderful. So I am writing this down. Someone should.