The Field - Part 3
Ultraviolet Communion
The kiss deepened, and Richard felt himself dissolving into it. Her hands were in his hair, pulling him closer, and he could taste the wine on her tongue—could feel the way she breathed his name against his lips like a prayer.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, he found himself drawn to the curve of her neck. Without thinking, he pressed his lips to her collarbone, and something electric shot through him. The bone was delicate and prominent, casting soft shadows that caught the fading light. He'd never paid attention to collarbones before—never knew they could be beautiful, never understood how the quiet architecture of someone's body could make his chest tighten with longing.
"God," he whispered against her skin. "Your collarbones are…"
"What?" Her voice was soft, amused.
"Perfect. I didn't know... I never noticed how beautiful they could be."
She laughed—low and musical—and tilted her head back, offering more. As he traced the line of bone with his lips, something extraordinary began to happen.
The lights were back.
Not just in the flowers now, but emanating from her skin. Soft, luminescent patterns pulsed with her heartbeat, creating glowing pathways across her body like a living constellation. It was the same bee-vision Zin had described earlier, but now he could see it too—ultraviolet highways that showed him exactly where to go, what she needed, how to navigate the sacred topography of her desire.
"Do you see them?" Zin whispered, breathy and wondering.
"The lights," Richard said, his voice thick with awe. "They're everywhere."
The patterns danced across her like aurora borealis, flowing downward—past her throat, across the soft rise of her chest—leaving silver traces that seemed to hum with invitation. He followed them slowly, each kiss a quiet invocation, each touch shaped by something older than language. The grass beneath them was cool against his knees, and the evening air carried the sweet perfume of bluebonnets and the salt of her skin.
Zin's breathing changed. Quickened. Her hands tightened on his shoulders as he moved lower, the lights growing stronger with each heartbeat. Around them, the field of bluebonnets seemed to respond, glowing in sympathetic rhythm, as if the earth itself were bearing witness.
"Richard," she gasped, and there was something wild in her voice now—urgent and unguarded.
He looked up at her, saw her flushed and radiant and barely holding on. Her whole body seemed to be trembling with a current neither of them fully understood.
Then she arched, a cry escaping her that harmonized with the wind through the flowers. She pushed him back gently, chest rising and falling like waves, her breath coming in soft gasps that seemed to echo in the vast Texas sky.
For a moment they both lay still, processing the enormity of what had just passed between them. The air felt charged, electric with possibility.
"I—I'm sorry," Richard started, unsure, but she reached for him again.
"No," she said, breath still catching. "The lights… can you still see them?"
He looked down and froze.
They were brighter now, more insistent. The patterns shimmered through the thin fabric of her dress, pooling low, like moonlight gathering at the roots of a tree. She shifted slightly, a small movement that somehow felt like invitation, like permission.
"Yes," she whispered, reading something in his expression. "Follow them."
Without hesitation, he followed them again.
This time, slower.
Her hands found his hair, fingers threading through it with gentle pressure. The sundress had ridden up, and beneath it, the lights burned through the sheer fabric of her underwear—soft, delicate, radiant as stained glass windows.
He paused, hovering, reverent.
And for a moment, Richard could only think: This is what I've always been writing toward. Not just the body, but the trust. Not just the heat, but the holiness of it. Every poem he'd ever written was just rehearsal for this—the miracle of being let in.
With trembling fingers, he began to move the fabric aside, guided not just by desire, but by devotion.
The lights pulsed brighter, welcoming him like the field itself—endless rows of bluebonnets that had been opening their throats to the sky all day, teaching him the ancient language of surrender and bloom.
