"I'm going to hurt you." I inhale sharply and close my eyes. A deep calm envelops me. Your voice justifies the thoughts and memories which I am allowing myself to replay in the theatre of my mind. I think of a fragment of our poem: "We take the golden road to Samarkand". The golden road. My journey. You: my guide. I mount the platform on which the cross stands. The wooden surface is rough on my naked feet. Your will demands me to touch the smooth timber in front of me with both hands, and slide them along the surface, feeling the texture of the surface you have prepared under my fingertips. My arms draw, up and out, matching the angle of the cross, and my belly falls snugly against the central point. The chiasmus. The meeting point. I stretch a little, and notice that my wrists each lie at the same height as a groove cut in to the wood. My head remains bowed as you approach, and you lift each wrist from the wood, slip a pad of soft leather underneath, and then deftly pinion each. Chuck thinks he can get the upstairs over the garages cleared out and cleaned to be our party house. We were thinking maybe Halloween, but that seemed to call for too much preparation for the party house and for the party goers. So we pretty well settled on the tail end of September, and we can call it an end of summer party. Invite friends and neighbors. You two would of course be host and hostess, and we’d get the whole thing going with some party games and plenty to drink. Then we stage a phone call from somebody. A sudden crisis that needs you two to dash to the rescue. You tell everybody to keep partying, and name Jason and me to act as the host couple in your absence. So we have to stay till everybody else leaves, and we’ll be working together to get things moderately straightened up. I’ll be hovering at his elbow, and if that doesn’t get the trap sprung, I’ll turn my ankle and need a macho man to help me. How’s that sound to you?’ ‘Audacious! Let’s get a sofa, along with some.
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