Secret. Warm. Snow.

From a visit with my far away person last month…

She has gone to visit her family in town and I am sitting in an empty banquet hall watching the sun illuminate last night’s snowfall. We trudged through it about a mile with our luggage, heating up our bodies such that I had to take off my scarf and other articles to keep myself from overheating.  Today, though, I am comfortably warm in my body and spiritually warmed by the timeless vision of a historical campus blanketed in snow. I am thinking about the many women who were educated there, especially those educated in times when women having knowledge was radical (even more than it is now).  I head back to the room we are sharing, pick up her button down shirts and walk upstairs to the laundry room where I set up the ironing board and plug in the iron.  As the iron is heating, so is my love for her.  This is but one kind of warmth through which I express my love.  Warm heart, warm body, my mind on fire. I am thinking about her soft chest enclosed in crisp cotton, her strong arms straining the seams of the sleeves. I imagine her fingers fastening each button with precision, her brow is tight and her lips are proudly, confidently posed. As my imagination wanders, I think of her dress pants belted comfortably at her waist, just above the buckle. I imagine the warm yellow light emanating from her solar plexus – the center of her creative power. And lower, the gentle orange glow of her sacrum. In this region of her body, her erotic power and her creative power are interwoven, each influencing the other. The erotic is ever present in her creative expression and there is art in her expression of eros. With the heated iron, I press the collars, the backs, the sleeves, the plackets and the bust darts of each shirt, carefully, and return them to their hangers. I put away the ironing board and set the iron out to cool. As I carry the shirts back to our room, I am thinking about the transgressive nature of my presence in this place. I am no student, nor a student’s relative, nor an instructor. I am here with my lover who is preparing to engage in professional activities. The only people who know I am here with her are the three different people I have met in the lobby. In moments of pleasure, we have struggled to keep quiet, though neither of us feels much remorse about that – perhaps I feel slightly embarrassed, but it is an embarrassment that arouses me. She has given me these instructions. Take time for yourself. Iron these shirts. Be ready for dinner later. Wear something that makes you feel sexy. Even running short on time, I finish every last one of her instructions. That success keeps me warm as I rush through ice and snow on foot to the restaurant in my favorite dress.


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