The Ceiling Fan

Like fallen warriors, we collapse side by side, glistening in the sweaty afterglow. Limbs still entangled, too exhausted to sing the other’s praise, we stare at the blades of the bedroom fan slowly circling above. A lone, satisfying sigh escapes in between your deep, cleansing breathes. Your smile reflects in the brass, ball base of the rotating fan. I smile in return, unable to rescue my gaze from the fan cooling off our steaming bodies. Slowly, your right hand moves; fingers entangle with those on my left. I still taste you on my lips. I silently laugh to myself upon the realization that I still have one sock on; the other dangling on the end of a fan blade. The remainder of our clothes strewn around the room as if the hamper had exploded. Your brassiere ruined when I removed it with my teeth. Beads of sweat roll down my thigh where our legs remain interlocked – I love the smooth contrast of your skin against my sun dried legs. The ever so slight breeze created by the fan is starting to dry our exposed skin as we slowly regain strength. The circling blades hypnotize. The subtle, rhythmic hum from the fan motor mixes with the recent memory of the rhythmic dance just concluded. Your hand, now lightly brushing against me, is re-energizing my engine. Slight, involuntary movements near your finger tips indicate our dance may not yet be over. I blink to interrupt my transfixed, mesmerized relationship with the ceiling fan, so I can once again concentrate on you. Energy restored – as if pumped back into our souls by the bedroom fan – the warriors re-engage in battle once again. A battle in which each warrior wins.