a/n: well I know my last short story stunk ha. I admit it was crappy in the imagery part. I was bored so I wrote, just to write or whatever. Maybe this one will be a bit more exciting or something. Read and reveiw... be honest I love that.

“The stars of midnight shall be dear

To her; and she shall lean her ear

In many a secret place

Where rivulets dance their wayward round

And beauty born of murmuring sound

Shall pass into her face.”

William Wordsworth – “Three Years She Grew In Sun and Shower”

--

Rendezvous of Freedom

HER

Rendezvous at midnight; this is what they both agreed to.

Quarter to midnight.

He was always late. She was always early.

She waited; legs dangling over the pier. Her arms folded in anxious patience as though she were waiting for Heavens gate to open. She was. He was her savior.

He would come like a spring rain. She would break like a dam into his arms. The wait being worth a million seconds alone in the cold…a thousand blunt jabs to her jaw….a hundred harsh words beaten on her soul. He would pull her to him like a rushing ocean through a feather; warming her to the bone and soul and day old bruises. It would be overwhelming. She would drown in his love.

Midnight.

He would be late. He was always Late.

She pulled her backpack closer to her; a feeble comfort compared to him. The waves teased the treads of her sneakers as she waited. Quiet trembles shook her body as though she were waiting for the eclipse. She was. He was her sun. She was his moon. Together they were one. They would overcome.

He would take her away. He promised crossing his heart and kissing her with a fire that made Lucifer jealous. She cried softly and he had brushed away her black and blue tears.

Her muscles cringed from hour old poundings, but she knew she was ready. She was ready to fly to the moon or dive to Atlantis or Raft down the Nile or take a train to Pittsburg; as long as he held her hand.

Ten After Midnight.

Foot steps. She knew he would be late. She knew he would try to apologize.

She didn’t have to turn her head or smile softly or show him her get-away bag. He knew she risked her heart and ribs to be free. She shushed his sorrys.

Liberation never felt so good, as his mouth on hers.

Him

Rendezvous at midnight; this is what they both agreed to.

Quarter to midnight.

He was always late. She was always early.

He needed to finish this. She was the paintbrush to his Van Gogh, the overfilled pen to his Wordsworth, the song that wouldn’t change in his heart. He would not let her down, but he had business first.

He knew her father would be watching the news. The man would have his twelve pack of Budweiser; drinking until he was in a light coma; a troll in place of sleeping beauty.

He waited until the buzz of heavy snores filled her trailer. Like a tornado warning on a stormy night, he would not let her down. The sight of her pain had enraged the cyclone of hatred in him. He knew what he had to do.

Midnight.

She would be early. She always was.

He promised he would take her away from the infuriated fists and dark halos around her eyes. She was his Venus. She inspired him to be everything and nothing at the same time. He could be the painter or writer or poet or pizza delivery boy with her. He could be.

He quietly slipped into the home and dropped a handful of small pills into the warm beer sitting in the man’s resting hand. When her father awoke and took another sip, he would only find burning pain before seeing Hell.

He slipped out in time to escape the man’s stirring. He was out of sight before he could see her father take a sip. She would never know his deed. He would never tell.

She was all that he craved now.

Ten after midnight.

She was beautiful sitting on the pier like an angel in the night.

She didn’t have to turn her head or smile softly or show him her get-away bag. He knew she risked her heart and ribs to be free. He had almost risked loosing her. He tried to say he was sorry for being late. She shushed him.

Liberation never felt so good as his mouth on hers.