Meditation on your garden

The cool spring air smudged with warmth reminds me of your sprawling garden, raised beds knit with shoots and hustles of herbs in a new rush to grow. Yes, I can see it now, the shocking green and soft purples, the simple complications, the unashamed hope of it all.

You know how I’d pick handfuls of parsley and shove them into the crook of my arm. I’d slip inside and rinse my finds with cool water in your kitchen, then I’d separate the delicate leaves from their bold stems. I’d fill the stone mortar waiting expectantly on your counter and I’d lift the heavy pestle with a small smile. I’d begin to grind as you came, filling the doorway and returning my smile. I’d crush the leaves with a sprinkle of salt and a dash of garlic releasing the overpowering scent that accompanies the death of new life.

With you watching, a thought would come to me. Without really knowing why, I’d abandon my destruction. Pestle in hand, I’d come to you thoughtfully. I’d pull you to the ground with one hand and with one hand I’d rip your panties from you, smiling all the time. I’d look from you to the glistening green of the pestle and back again. When I pulled your legs apart, you’d know why; you’d meet my gaze with a flash of recognition.

Yes, you’d gasp when I brought the cold hard pestle down between your legs, gently at first but grinding. Yet your hips would lift slightly when I turned the pestle against your clit – once, twice, more. There would be surprise there too, but no more than at the shock of seeing the new garden outside. You’d like the abuse. You’d want more, plead with your eyes, beg me to destroy you. Harder and harder and harder I’d turn the stone against my new mortar until you completely dissolved, grinning at me as you came.

Afterwards you’d go to dress as I’d finish grinding my herbs, mixing in your flavors. We’d eat by the window, smearing the herbs onto new bread, eyeing the garden and laughing.