I want to imagine it again, from this distance. November dawn in the Kanawha Valley, sunny, hungry. The morning after watching A Walk on the Moon and falling in love with Viggo Mortensen yet again, here I am in South Charleston’s Krispy Kreme, savoring a few of that day’s featured doughnuts, pumpkin spice cake, when Viggo strides in—slant of miracle, hymn of sunlight—lost in the mountains, in need of a friend, craving sweets, hot coffee, a warm bed, his married past and parenthood forgotten for the nonce.
Reader, I took him home. I pulled off his duster, flannel shirt, wife-beater, faded jeans and cowboy boots. I spent the weekend loving his lean and honey-hairy chest, his ass pale as Icelandic skies or the heart of a McIntosh apple, sweet as doughnut icing to several senses. (Watch the film again to savor these details). I bound him tightly to the bed and kept him for days, detaining God’s gifts as best I could, and everything was heady with his submission.
My nakedness lies atop his still, my lips bless his brow even now, here in words warming one empty, unexceptional morning, fantasy edging this aging
day, details of the impossible, the alternative.