But what is love, if love be not friction?
The old woman slowly rocked back and forth in that old, creaky whicker rocker. For the umpteenth time, a swaddled newborn was placed in her blanket-shrouded lap. Instinctively, a knurled old finger caressed the patina of another great-grandchild’s cheek. Instinctively, a little mouth opened, the rooting reflex in play. Back and forth, in time with creaks of the rocker, a finger and a cheek so lightly touched. But what is love, if love be not friction?
He felt the burn of the snapped wet towel on his quivering, wet butt. It did hurt. And he quickly turned to identify the perpetrator in this showering PE class of teenage testosterone. And he was met not with the maliced snarl of a bully, but the scintillating, yet concealed smile of the other who seemed to be different. And the communication of pain was but a fumbling way of touching in a forbidden way. But what is love, if love be not friction?
The middle-aged man was renting the downstairs of an old, ramshackled, two-story house. A house that could contain no secrets. The routine was soon recognized. The muffled sound of the early morning up-stairs alarm. The rhythm of a rocking bed. The moose-like grunts, the high-pitched little squeals. And then, the abrupt interjection of silence to be finally given away to the sound of steps, the flush of the commode, the clanking of hot water pipes. Later, they would emerge together from the upstairs doorway, hand-in-hand, to bounce down the external steps. He in his pizzeria t-shirt and baseball cap. She without her Wal-Mart “How can I help you” vest. The old smokin’ pickup truck jostling them together out of the parking lot. But what is love, if love be not friction?
In the frenzied life of the soccer moms, this kind of moment was infrequent and precious. Her eye lash would but nearly imperceptibly brush the cheek of her soul-mate. Their prone embrace all encompassing. Their hearts beating in unison. Her fingers combing the long hair of her partner. Their souls melding in the stillness of the hour. But what is love, if love be not friction?
They are an eclectic bunch in the 21st century virtual band of Chaucer’s Canterbury pilgrims. The KinNet travelers that is. Each with a tale to tell. Sometimes goading. Sometimes chiding. Sometimes confirming. Sometimes deriding. Sometimes laughing. Sometimes crying. Sometimes angry. Sometimes sighing. Sometimes affirming. Sometimes denying. But a tale to tell by each that touches. But what is love, if love be not friction?
The Refectory Manager
He felt the burn of the snapped wet towel on his quivering, wet butt. It did hurt. And he quickly turned to identify the perpetrator in this showering PE class of teenage testosterone. And he was met not with the maliced snarl of a bully, but the scintillating, yet concealed smile of the other who seemed to be different. And the communication of pain was but a fumbling way of touching in a forbidden way. But what is love, if love be not friction?
The middle-aged man was renting the downstairs of an old, ramshackled, two-story house. A house that could contain no secrets. The routine was soon recognized. The muffled sound of the early morning up-stairs alarm. The rhythm of a rocking bed. The moose-like grunts, the high-pitched little squeals. And then, the abrupt interjection of silence to be finally given away to the sound of steps, the flush of the commode, the clanking of hot water pipes. Later, they would emerge together from the upstairs doorway, hand-in-hand, to bounce down the external steps. He in his pizzeria t-shirt and baseball cap. She without her Wal-Mart “How can I help you” vest. The old smokin’ pickup truck jostling them together out of the parking lot. But what is love, if love be not friction?
In the frenzied life of the soccer moms, this kind of moment was infrequent and precious. Her eye lash would but nearly imperceptibly brush the cheek of her soul-mate. Their prone embrace all encompassing. Their hearts beating in unison. Her fingers combing the long hair of her partner. Their souls melding in the stillness of the hour. But what is love, if love be not friction?
They are an eclectic bunch in the 21st century virtual band of Chaucer’s Canterbury pilgrims. The KinNet travelers that is. Each with a tale to tell. Sometimes goading. Sometimes chiding. Sometimes confirming. Sometimes deriding. Sometimes laughing. Sometimes crying. Sometimes angry. Sometimes sighing. Sometimes affirming. Sometimes denying. But a tale to tell by each that touches. But what is love, if love be not friction?
The Refectory Manager
posted by The Refectory Manager | 6:54 PM
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