Dandelions

In that early morning light, that luminous dawn, he led me up the garden. We stepped over broken bricks and dandelions; they grew careless, reckless- like I was then.
We didn't say a word, just crept and twisted forwards, linked by youth; drunk on midsummer warmth and the melodies of Radiohead fresh in our minds.
Possibly I had a hangover, mild, subtle- I'm not sure, but it seems likely. I could hear the birdsong and and feel the soil beneath my feet. I felt alive, connected, eternal.
He turned and watched me for a while; we stood quiet- not touching, just waiting, dream-like.
Then:
'Lie down, I want to see you.'
There was innocence in the tone, yet also a thinly disguised lust- an alluring vulgarity. I did as he said. He was rarely commanding- but this was different. This was his idea.
I lay on the ground, where the grass was thickest and looked up at him. Still he watched me, carefully, gently- but there was a hunger there too. It thrilled me.

Slowly, he crouched down beside me.
'Take them off.'
I wriggled out of my panties.
'Now open your legs.'
For a while I heard nothing but the sound of him breathing- and my heart, hammering away inside me.
'You're very pink,' he murmured.
Then he went closer, said nothing more.
I lay in ecstasy, cocooned by both sky and sensation. I dripped onto the flowers and the grasses, the soil and the sharp little sticks that dug into my bottom.
For minutes, maybe hours, he drank at me.

I don't remember what happened during that day. Maybe we went to Camden. Maybe we wandered aimlessly along the streets of New Cross. Maybe we hid in his room, curtains closed, smoking badly rolled joints and Marlboro lights, whilst PJ Harvey oozed sex from the CD player.
It doesn't really matter.

Then there's a new flash of memory and I smell that summer night; scented flowers- maybe Jasmine, and I can hear the low rumble of traffic. And I see the window...we're sitting by the window, on the patchwork sofa with the funny musty smell- like he'd milked his semen onto the fabric; the same curious scent that seemed to follow him wherever he went. I flinch with the distance of it all.
I see myself; shrouded with self inflicted teenage mystery, radiant- untouched by the harsher things soon to occur.
'Dandelions,' I'd said- thinking of the garden, blushing, hoping he'd know what I meant, 'are really quite pretty, aren't they?'
And I see now how he stroked my face with his eyes; how I almost recognized the beauty of the moment, just not quite.