Nantucket
by Edie
edie@gmx.us

	There's a boy perched on the arm of a couch, strumming on a banjo. The couch is in a beach house, perched on the arm of Cape Cod. And in that beach house, I am sitting across from him, curled up in a rocking chair, a pale ale in my hand and my feet still salty from the warm waters of the Nantucket sound. There's a party around us, fueled by young twenty somethings and a fridge of beer, but all I see is this boy, his straight straggly hair framing his face, and his eyes, closed, lost in the harmony the impromptu band has created. Someone's made a percussion instrument out of an empty Sierra Nevada case and there's a semi-sober fool tooting a cheap flute, but the group's giving bluegrass masters a run for their money. His hair is dancing up and down to the tapping of his right foot, and the room starts to dance up and down to the tapping of his right foot. A warm heady burst of attraction dampens my vision, and all I can feel is him, his fingers, and the furious music they channel. 
	An hour later, the instruments have been put away, but the party's still going strong; Ace of Base blasting from speakers, and a long couch shoved off to a side to make way for a dance floor. In the kitchen, I'm leaning against a counter, laughing at a joke that's probably not so clever sober. A hand slips around my waist, and I turn to see the boy, holding onto the thin of my sweater. He nods towards the music blaring from the living room.
	"Dance with me?"
	That little question mark at the end of the sentence, that little upwards lilt that makes a grammatical command a pragmatical plead; it's that little nervous tic that makes a girl's heart melt. So I glance at him, lopsided smile on my lips, and holding his hand in mine, I follow him to the living room. Soon we're willing mortality away with the rest of the crowd. My body is pressed against his; the small of my waist against his solid trunk. And drifting in my nose is him; woodsy, comforting, hormonal sweat and cologne. Inebriating.  
	We leave the party together, the boy and I; sneaking out the back door during a break in the music. The stars, not outshone by the blinding cover of a city, glaze the black sky with bright specks and dim mists of galaxies far away. I can't see his face in the stillness of the night, but his hand in mine is solid, warm, and pulsing. We didn't make it very far before more than our hands intertwined. My arm around his shoulders, his around my waist, we kiss, deeply, hungrily. 
	Gasp of breath, hitting the chilly air above. His fingers, my lips, his tongue, my legs, our bodies seek each other out, as we sink down to the damp sand. We're desperately trying to become one, tearing underneath clothing, underneath armor. He pushes me down, presses me between his warm body and the impartial packed sand. As he sinks into me, I close my eyes, see the nocturnal map of Nantucket etched into my eyelids, feel the depth of him etched into my center, and all that exists in the world is him, me, and the Atlantic Ocean.