wrapped up in you (the meadows)

You walked along, tan and fit, you were always walking. You walked and walked. Your calves so supple as to make a girl want to lick them, walking along, your skirt riding your thighs. You walk, you stop for water in the shade of the overpass. You edge your toes out of the straps to kick a stone from your sandal, squeak your foot back in. You tease out your ponytail, run your fingers through your curls, rake out the knots, bind them up again against the sweat on your nape.

And there you were, you always were. You, brushing your hair. Braiding and unbraiding it. You, brushing your teeth even, one time. Spitting into the grass, your toothpaste arching through the air in slow motion on its long curve from your lips to the earth. You on the rise next to the guardrail, chin up, eyes closed, hands supine on your thighs. You, silent, seeming not to hear the cars flying by behind you. Seeming not to notice the eyes on your back, on the hurricane of your hair.

By that day, you had endured enough. Maybe it was the fucking heat, maybe it was the circumstances. Maybe it was your basic constitution. But your last nerve had been twanged and you let loose. You, shooting fireballs from your tired eyes, your hair flying around your head like a halo. Your sinew pushing at him, flailing and kicking at a mountain of a man, giving him everything you had. Your shrieked invective get the fuck away from me reverberating in the timbres of the overpass, get the fuck away.

But you were subdued, defeated, lying back boneless as he carried you off like so many potatoes. You should not cause a scene, your mother taught you that much. It was a brief miscalculation, all that yelling and fighting, you did not carry yourself that way. So you complied, you lay back, lank hair hanging, reaching for the earth that was your bed. And he carried you, lifting you like a bride over a threshold, into the woods.

What happened to you in those woods? Where are you now? You, prideful woman, you were magnetic, effervescent; you were every shade of every color. And now you are gone. You left no trace, no headline, no mention in the police blotter. Just gone. I want to think you headed indoors and safe. I fear that you are in those woods still now, your gleamish hair becoming one with the marshy earth at last.

You wrapped me up in you, in your braid and your brash, your muscles and musk. You had all of me wrapped up in you. I could not save you. And now you are gone.
My Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week was from Christina, who prompted me to write a story in the second person point of view.