September air is fresh, full of water, and this path I'm walking ends at the lake where we've arranged to meet. Never still or glassy, as lakes are in stories, it is engaging in morning calisthenics, teasing the shoreline, stretching to wet the sky and collapsing back into itself.
Dawn is already waiting for me, asleep on the floating dock at the center of the lake. I almost can't see her through the dove grey curtain cast by the swirling mists.
I step into the lake and submerge gently, so my ripples spread too slowly to disturb her. Dawn, don't wake without me. The underwater green world embraces me icily and makes a home in every once-warm crevice. I surface only to gasp breath, then duck under the quiet, and push through the cold, letting the currents of convection paint every inch of skin.
When I reach the dock, I am goose-pimpled and red. Dawn is pale, almost blue in the protective shadow, with strawberry hair, just platinum at the tips. I climb onto the dock, shaking cold diamonds onto her skin. Her eyes, horizons, flutter open and suddenly the lake is looking right back into me. The heat of my kiss conjures peach to her cheeks. Her foliage, where I caress it, catches a glint of gold.
I brush her lips. With the chill of the lake still wrapped around my bones, the places where our skin meets are hot as a bed of coals. My hands stretch her hips. She opens as wide as the sky. My tongue laps hot at her hidden folds. When she is ready, on the edge of breaking, I rise.
As I slide myself into her, the bowl of the lake floods with color.