The Field - Part 4
Not a Serial Killer, Just a Poet on Acid
If you’re just joining, I recommend starting at Part One.
Lest reality intrude.
-Dave
The lights were everywhere now, pulsing beneath Richard's fingertips like a living map of desire. He was lost in them, lost in her, lost in the sweet salt taste of—
"Zin?"
The voice cut through the electric hum of the field like a blade.
Richard's head snapped up, panic flooding his system. Through the bluebonnets, maybe thirty yards away, stood a tall figure with long dark locks and a concerned expression that was rapidly shifting to something else entirely.
"Oh I found you," David said, taking in the scene—Zin's dress bunched around her waist, Richard's face flushed and guilty between her thighs, the scattered remnants of their picnic. "And now I'm un-finding this memory from my brain."
Richard scrambled backward, nearly falling over in his haste to sit up. The LSD made everything feel too bright, too sharp, like someone had turned up the contrast on reality. His hands shook as he tried to smooth down Zin's dress, but she was already doing it herself, surprisingly calm.
"Hey, David," she said, not bothering to adjust her posture right away. "Drama queen."
"You're lucky I care about your well-being," David replied, backing away with his hands raised. "I was ten minutes from calling in a helicopter. You've been out here for four hours. I was starting to think I'd set you up with a serial killer."
Four hours. Richard's mind reeled. It had felt like minutes and eternity all at once.
"Not a serial killer," Zin said, sitting up and reaching for Richard's hand. "Just a poet who forgot how to speak."
David's grin widened. "Even better. Okay, I'm evacuating this whole situation. Text me when you're... done communing with nature."
He disappeared back through the bluebonnets, leaving them in sudden, ringing silence.
Richard stared at the spot where David had been, his heart hammering against his ribs. The magic of the moment lay shattered around them like broken glass. "Christ," he muttered. "I just got caught going down on someone by their friend. In a public field. While on acid. I think my dignity just filed for divorce."
"Richard." Zin's voice was gentle but firm. "Look at me."
He turned to find her studying his face with those eyes that seemed to change color in the light. Her hair was mussed, her lips swollen, and there was something in her expression that looked suspiciously like amusement.
"Are you laughing at me?" he asked.
"A little," she admitted. "You look like someone just told you the government's been watching you masturbate."
"That's... weirdly specific."
"David's not some stranger," she said, reaching for her phone. "He's the one who picked you, remember? If anything, he's probably feeling pretty smug right about now." She squinted at the screen. "Oh wow. Yeah, he was definitely having a full mental breakdown."
She showed him the cascade of messages:
1:47 PM: How's the wholesome picnic going?
2:15 PM: Everything cool? No serial killer vibes?
2:45 PM: Zin?
3:30 PM: Okay this is taking longer than a normal date
4:10 PM: …SOS?
4:25 PM: Like what if I matched you with Ted Bundy
4:40 PM: I'm coming to find you
4:55 PM: Please don't be in a shallow grave
4:55 PM: If you're not dead… I'm going to kill you
"Jesus," Richard said, scrolling through the messages. "He really thought you were dead."
"Or worse—bored to death by project management stories." Zin was typing rapidly. "I'm telling him his matchmaking skills exceeded expectations and that you're definitely not a serial killer."
"What are you actually saying?"
She showed him the screen: *Still alive. Your boy delivers. Will call later.*
Richard watched her hit send, marveling at how she could shift so easily between the mystical and the mundane. Ten minutes ago she'd been guiding him through ultraviolet maps of desire, and now she was managing friend drama via text message.
"Are you disappointed?" he asked suddenly. "That we got interrupted?"
She looked up at him, really looked, and something in her gaze made his chest tight. "Disappointed? Richard, I just had the most intense experience of my life in a field of wildflowers with a man who writes poetry about… flower worship. David showing up doesn't exactly erase that."
"But we didn't... finish."
"Finish what?" She tilted her head, genuinely curious. "What script were you following?"
The question caught him off guard. He'd been so focused on the lights, on pleasing her, that he hadn't really thought about what came next. In his fantasies, there was always a clear progression, a logical endpoint. But this had felt different from the beginning—less about reaching a destination and more about being present for the journey.
"I honestly have no idea," he admitted. "I was just... following the bees."
"Good," she said, scooting closer. "That means you were actually here instead of performing some scenario in your head."
The sun was lower now, painting everything in shades of gold and amber that seemed to pulse with the remnants of his trip. The lights were fading but not gone entirely, still visible at the edges of his vision like persistent dreams.
"The lights," he said suddenly. "Can you still see them?"
Zin looked around the field, then back at him. "Faintly. But they're different now. Softer. Like they're satisfied with what they showed us."
"What did they show us?"
She was quiet for a long moment, considering. "That paying attention is the most radical thing you can do. That. I don't know.. something beautiful—it's about presence." She smiled. "That maybe the best kind of love poem isn't written with words."
Richard felt something shift in his chest, a recognition that went deeper than the drug or the desire or even the connection they'd shared. This wasn't just about sex or romance or whatever label people might put on it. This was about learning to see, really see, another person. About the courage it took to be seen in return.
"I want to see you again," he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "Not just tonight, but... again. Tomorrow. Next week. I want to learn all your maps."
Zin's smile was radiant. "I'd like that. But maybe next time we pick somewhere with fewer potential David sightings."
"Or at least somewhere he doesn't have GPS coordinates for."
They both laughed, and the sound carried across the field like music. In the distance, Richard could hear cars on the highway, people heading home from their ordinary Saturday afternoons. But here, surrounded by bluebonnets and fading light and the lingering magic of shared vulnerability, he felt like he was exactly where he belonged.
"Come on," Zin said, standing and brushing grass from her dress. "All this mystical communion has made me hungry for tacos. And I want to hear more of your poems."
"Which ones?"
"The dirty ones, obviously. I'm curious what other scenarios you've workshopped in your head."
Richard got to his feet, legs slightly unsteady from the acid and the intensity of the afternoon. "That's... a very long list."
"Perfect. I've got time."
Richard got to his feet, legs slightly unsteady from the acid and the intensity of the afternoon. As they gathered their things—the empty wine bottle, the pie tin, the red blanket that had held them through their transformation—he felt grateful for David's interruption. Not because it had stopped them, but because it had reminded him that this was real. That he wasn't just dreaming or tripping or imagining that someone like Zin could want someone like him.
She wanted tacos. She wanted to see him again. She wanted to learn what other poems he'd written in the dark hours of his loneliness, preparing for a love he'd never been sure would come.
The bluebonnets whispered their approval as they walked back toward the car, and Richard finally understood what they'd been trying to tell him all along: sometimes the most beautiful things bloom in the most unexpected places.
