Between touch and horizon
I.
East
She's bound to New York from Boston, or was it the other way round? He calls to tell her "I think I might move out", and her heart drops. It feels as though his words are coming from the end of a very long tunnel – one she's desperately trying to see the end of through her phone through his voice and into his brain. She stands in the quieter space between two train cars while tears stream down her face trying to understand, trying to sound calm, trying not to imagine his face.
West
He's holding her to his chest while she traces the lines of his face and brushes the stretch marks of his teenage growth spurt. She clasps his waist, holding fast to the iliac crest as though a steering wheel, while he breathes quietly. This isn't the first bed they've lain on together, but it will be the last.
North
He's two timezones away in a cabin hand built by his grandparents. It's the wee hours of the morning, and he won't wake up tomorrow until noon because the most exciting thing in his life right now is this tender thread of conversation connecting him to her. She's snuggled into her sleeping bag, two friends sleeping soundly next to her on the floor of the tent. The glow of her phone reflects in her eyes as she smiles in the dark and breathes soft laughs.
South
The car cradles them to the Papallacta hot springs on their first evening above 9000 feet. The undulation of the road is mirrored by the rise and fall of consciousness as their brains adapt to elevation. There's steam fogging the windows and their bodies loll about the backseat, her head on his shoulder, his legs akimbo. While they stumble out of the car, through the changing rooms, and into the pools, the only tethers they have are to each other. Their breath mingles with the steam, creating ethereal wreaths.
II. Cheche and saroual
We had followed a boy wearing bright blue flip flops and a blinding white smile into the Sahara as he led our small entourage of camels and our ungainly crew to this small camp close to the border of Algeria. After enormous hospitality and a staggering meal, we flopped down to trace the night sky with weak city eyes and wondering city minds. We experienced the cosmos from inside sleeping bags on magic carpets lain just outside the circle of light that defined camp. It didn't take long for even our murmurs to feel intrusive, and then for our consciousness to choose to intrude less. We drifted together on sand, amidst stars, and between planes.
We scrambled up the dune, high stepping and sliding back through the sand, hurrying to reach the top. We slung our legs over either side of the crest and thumped down to sit atop the ridge as though we rode a large beast. The sand was nighttime cool, the air was parchingly dry, and the soft swish of sand being gently blown over itself was a revenant hush. As the day broke, the breeze died and our breath sounded so loudly as to highlight the quiet of the desert. As in prayers, so did our existence break the vast silence for each other. Within it we knew ourselves to be small but not alone.
III. Unmaintained trail
It's our first vacation together: a long weekend in Oahu of driving a blue sporty car, hunting for spectacular views, and lazily having sex in the morning because the time difference works in our favor.
We stop the car in a quiet neighborhood street, shoulder our water packs and follow the instructions to drop down into the trail behind some colorful mailboxes, under a tree, and between two suburban houses. Straightaway it's jungle lush, burbling creek, and sweaty tropics. The yellow sign says "KA'AU CRATER UNMAINTAINED TRAIL. CONTINUE AT OWN RISK", which makes me feel sure the view is going to be rare and worth it.
At first, we scramble through streams. I lose my phone to the water and rocks from the loose mesh of my pack. We scale past muddy walls and step across rushing water using ropes left by hikers past. I eat too many strawberry guava dangling from branches overhead. The sun visits us in between the clouds. Shirts come off, and we trek upwards through a tropical drizzle, hair slicked to our heads and flecks of mud on our skin.
In the midst of this, there's one long jump across to the opposite side of rushing water that gives us pause. You don't like heights but emerged victorious against them in the last war. I go first, holding fast to a tree after the leap, turning back to look past the water at you.
You shake the water from your hair, rock back, and leap. Crashing then clasping your warmth blooms onto my skin, your arms wrap around me, and your breath tickles my ear. The first I love you.
The top of this hike is like none I've seen before or since. This mountain is an artifact that shelters a pearl of crater filled to brim with green life. A view that on one side makes me feel we're at the edge the the world and on the other side a simple lush hill. Both are true: I love you too.