Objectifying Dean
Winter Wonderland
The snow is falling persistently now, carpeting the buildings with a blanket of delicate white that muffles the sparse traffic sounds. The world is rendered almost mute and the few people who brave the blizzard appear as shadows against the bright glare.
I sit in my car and wonder whether to risk the dash to the library, but the snow is deep and my sneakered feet are already damp and cold. It sits somewhat uncomfortably with me not to return the books but then, in truth, it is not the first time I have failed to achieve this task of normality.
As I ponder, I glance through the lace covered windshield towards the library steps and it is then that I see him.
He is standing in the shade of the building so he is a little sheltered from the swirling storm, but only slightly, and I wonder why he does not seek safe haven in the library foyer. But then I look at him again and see that he is not a creature of turgid academia.
He is of the wild and everything about him shrieks contained excitement and danger. He is not the stuff of libraries or even of the real world. My heart throbs with the wonder of him.
He is wearing a thin and shabby canvas jacket which he hugs to his lean, toned upper-body, with arms that look like they pump iron or something similar on a regular basis. I note the zipper on his jacket is broken and it flies open in the breeze revealing an old, once white T-shirt that is tight to his washboard stomach. His jeans are tattered too but fit well, defining the slimness of his waist as they hang loosely on his hips, the band of his boxers peeking cheekily above the frayed denim.
His legs are long and lithe and more than a little bowed, and they reach down to scuffed boots that are soaked with the drifting snow. He moves from foot to foot rhythmically, almost as if he is dancing, and the movement is sensual and mesmerising. I wonder what it would be like to move slowly to a sad and lilting melody, those powerful arms wrapped around me and the heat of his chest pressed to my willing flesh.
I look then at his face and I know I could happily spend the rest of my days watching this beautiful creature. His skin is not quite tanned but it has the tawny sheen that those who spend time outdoors carry so well, and his cheekbones are defined in the coldness of the day. He has freckles that dot and dab the bridge of his nose, and guide my eye to lips that are full and pout with the promise of brutally, kind kisses.
I realise I am losing the vision that he is; as the pure snow threatens to cover my wind-shield, and I swat the wipers over the fluttery drifts. They squeak in the muted world of white and he lifts his gaze toward me, drawn by the small but significant sound.
It is then I see his eyes in their perfect glory and I know I could fall in to them and be content in the tumbling descent. They are green and I imagine they find a different shade of velvet wonder in each circumstance they find.
Today they are jade.
Pale, pale, translucent jade and they sparkle with the incandescence of the snow in this sudden winter wonderland.