There was that time when I took her away from the city’s lights to a remote open field.
I set up my Meade 6-inch reflector telescope, the one that had the long tube and an electric clutch-less clock drive, which I’d configured to run on batteries, and as the twilight turned to astronomical dusk and the cloudless summer sky opened over the two of us, the stars began appearing one-by-one, then in droves, and we were next to one another on our backs on that old parachute liner we used as a blanket back then, and had eaten some yummy sandwiches, and I smelled the White Linen that intoxicatingly mixed with her womeness and I drank in her aromaticity as, overhead, the stars wheeled in their courses, and the Firmament refrained.
And I showed her the Wonders of the Visible Universe, Northern Virginia Summer Edition, and she peered through the eyepiece and smiled in the red light of my flashlight that had several layers of a plastic Oroweat bread loaf sack wrapped around the business end and held on with a thick rubber band, the warm night fading under the spell of nocturnal surface cooling, and we packed everything up and returned to the city but not before hitting a DQ.
And, once in suburbia, the two of us summon a kiss or two on her front porch and on her lips I tasted the remnants of her dipped cone’s hard chocolate shell.
And I suddenly was cognizant of heavenly bodies other than Heavenward, and how I liked it when she gently bit my earlobes.
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