Free The Splendor of Ordinary Days by Jeff High Page A

faded, and our world slowly lapsed into an immortal stillness, a soft, brooding hush brought on by the fading twilight.
    Evenings on the summer porch had become our nightly ritual. Often I would lie on the long wicker sofa, sometimes with my head in Christine’s lap, and we would talk and laugh and giggle . . . our voices echoing into the lonely distance. The hours would pass. Eventually our eyes would grow tired and we would fall silent, listening to the vast orchestral music of the night. Crickets would chirp nearby, or occasionally there was an elusive humming in the evening breeze. The low groan of a car could be heard distantly, winding its way around the far curves of Summerfield Road until the solitary headlights would fade into the black. Despite the delight and the rich comfort of being together, sagging weariness would overtake us, telling us it was time for me to go home.
    But not before we passed several moments in the delightful euphoria of some long and passionate kisses. With the moonlight on her face, Christine would appear luminous. The warm, fragrant smell of her skin was intoxicating, and I would gather her in, embracing her wholly with eagerness and longing.
    And in those parting moments, even against the drowning fog of fatigue, a quiet yearning would steal through us, a desire to physically express our consuming emotions. Holding her so delightfully close left me drunk with passion. In time we would separate, whisper awkward ­good-­byes, and I would walk to the car in the shadowy moonlight, all the while feeling the contemplative, wishful glow of her eyes upon me.
    Despite the affection, the great intimacy and honesty we shared, it seemed we could not find words to discuss our arrested desire any more than we could refute its unspoken presence. We had been caught in our own trap since our first date. Perhaps from the very beginning, the vast weight of the potential each of us saw in the relationship had made us cautious, careful, respectful, apprehensive about boldly pursuing sexual intimacy. In these days of promiscuity and permissiveness, our puritanical practices seemed almost laughable, but they had become our uncanny norm.
    Now, despite our abiding love and aching hearts, we stood on uncertain ground. Neither of us wanted to confirm or deny the possibility of our greater intimacy. It was a language we had not found and yet, I was certain, one we both desperately wanted to express. Perhaps we weren’t so unlike the Mennonites, struggling to find harmony between the eager desires we felt and the ideals we held.
    I waved ­good-­bye and headed into the darkness.
    After arriving at Fleming Street, I took care of Rhett. I didn’t know it at the time, but the night would be a short one.

CHAPTER 8
    The Storm
    T here was a stagnation in the air as I stood in the backyard waiting for Rhett to accommodate his finicky bladder. The night had a brooding and strangely malevolent feel: a grave silence save for the low droning hum of the AC unit. Rhett was painfully slow in taking care of business, seemingly more occupied with sniffing the air in a curious and cautious manner, as if sensing an imminent change.
    â€œCome on, buddy. Some of us need to get some sleep,” I said in encouragement, fully confident that he, as well as most dogs, had a thorough command of the English language. Yet his ponderous investigation continued as he paused often and peered sharply into the gloom of the great trees that surrounded the yard. A few more of my encouraging comments finally did the trick, and I made my weary way toward the back porch, up the stairs, and into bed. But the telltale signs were there. Just beyond the far hills, a storm was plummeting toward the valley, preparing to sweep down the high slopes with a savage indifference.
    Sometime after midnight, a series of strobing flashes illuminated the distant horizon. Within the mystery of deep sleep, behind my closed eyes, my subconscious was