“Now that old swing still hangs from the tree
Out back of the house that love built.”
-James Bonamy,
“The Swing.”
 

It’s as if he’s psychic; as if he can read my mind.

I was just about to get up from the porch swing and refresh my cold coffee, and maybe grab the comforter off the couch, too; the warm afternoon was slipping into chilly night; when he appeared at the door, steaming cups in his hands, comforter folded over one shoulder.

Without a word, he handed the larger of the two mugs to me, the red ceramic one with the raised pewter ‘W’ on the side, then, mindful of his own cup, sat carefully next to me on the swing and shook out the comforter.

I helped to spread the quilted down over his hips and my own, then blew on my coffee, thinking I should go find the Drambuie, to completely take the chill off-

I smelled the heady mixture of scotch, spices and honey before I tasted it as I brought the cup to my lips.  A sharp look at him only earned me a Scully-patented raised eyebrow, then a slow lazy smile.

Mindreader, I thought, shifting slightly to set my mug on the oversized wooden spool that served as a table next to the swing, where it joined my first cup, my glasses, and the book I had been reading.  I turned to face my lover and saw he was gazing at me intently, looking just a little smug as he sipped the contents of his own cup.

I took the black mug sprinkled with silver starry constellations away from his mouth and hands and snuggled it up to mine on the spool.

He was in my arms before I had to ask, almost before I opened my arms, and I met no resistance as I pulled his face to mine, running my hands through his thick sable hair and capturing his lips with my own.

I love this man, I thought, as I tasted the sweet liquor on his mouth as well, along with the faint flavour of toothpaste and, overlying it all, a dark sweetness uniquely his own.  As I delved into that warm mouth, plundering with tongue, teeth and lips, then allowed him to do the same to me, the thought recurred: I love this man

Almost feverishly, we devoured each other, not wanting to overlook a single texture, or miss a single taste.  I noticed the swing rocking in response to our actions, but didn’t care.

And over it all, like an extra heartbeat, the refrain, over and over in my head: I love this man; I love him; I love you, Fox…

Abruptly he pulled away and I fell under that intense Mulder-scrutiny again.

“What?”  I almost barked, feeling just a little naked and uncomfortable as he continued to stare at me.

Then, with a sigh, he fetched up hard against me, head on my chest, arms tight around my waist.  His words were muffled, spoken into my chest, into my heart.

“Me too, Walter.”

Mindreader, I thought again.  Psychic.

I kissed his soft hair and whispered in his ear, “Stupendous.”