She was afraid, not in a paralyzing way, but of the unknown. The manner in which these sensations of being touched, of trusting, converged at the singular point of her love being expressed and the shadows falling away. She noted the down like fuzz just below his ear sweeping back along the hairline of his neck and that despite his breathing near her she did not notice the presence of his breath.

So much for being an independent woman, she thought, considering all the years she had made trouble and avoided being tamed. Tamed, she called it, because it meant being put in her place, receiving energy and not busy with the proffering, but here she was, not knowing what to offer and only accepting with rapid heartbeats his advances. Suddenly she empathized, in a profound way like the sun beating night away into day, with her Mother. She daydreamed these thoughts as her fiancé explored the landscape of her figure secure under garments focused on the essence of their being in love, groomed to raise families and continuing the march towards personal realization.

It felt strange, like she was outside of herself, the manic temperament of her thinking abated, the flurry of words falling into poetic form ceased, she was actually calm and pleased with herself that something like enjoyment of a thing was happening. She did not feel lustful. She was not participating as though the goal of their mutual satisfaction was shared and jointly sought after, instead a kind of detachment, like a hollow in the wild growth of a forest, a quiet moment, the din absent, presented itself and she was happy to find the cover while blanketed thinly with affection.

She could now understand sentiment, why people did what they did for reasons outside of ratiocination. It was new for her, this consideration of what she had otherwise thought made her friends, peers, weak, susceptible to a loss of autonomy. She was not going to love him, not like his body wanted now, that was still too far remote of an idea to think of experiencing.

Time passed and she avoided his kiss, but not entirely, only pushing him away to other places she preferred the attention, occasionally laughing and causing him to look at her in that confused manner she had grown accustomed to whenever she behaved in a way he was unaccustomed to.

The lands and wealth she stood to inherit meant she could afford this measure of aloof posturing. She lacked the sensibility healthy fear can induce and saw her being protected by her family’s estate as a blessing she was happy to accept.

Henry, her fiancé, also derived a full breast of confidence from family legacy but lacked the raw vitality of intelligence Carolyne expressed in a fluid manner that managed itself as disciplined creativity. What was spoken of regarding her, but never to her person, was how she would come to submit herself to a union, no one close to her thinking the feat possible, or an actual marriage manageable.

“Carolyne?” Henry’s face suddenly came into focus before her and she came to having suddenly lost touch with her current thought.

She replied, “yes?”

“Are you with me?” He asked, his face had that look she had noted at times which made her feel, in those moments, that he was not with her, not for the long haul at least.

A kind of barrier was between them and though they were engaged to be married, she did not think to herself that day would actually arrive, that she would happily live out her days as his wife. It was a gut feeling, not one she acted out on as though a decision would come from her, but a feeling that today was only a rehearsal and tomorrow would be the fight she had been holding back on all those days her energy disrupted the tranquility of her family and loved ones.

“I am,” she said. The answer was easy to provide, it rang out empty because she was always present regarding her duties as Sturgis Fields only daughter and child.

Her commitment to the moment meant she did not need a specific environment to freely roam the expanse of her imagination. This meant that no matter what she was doing, unless she had to be totally engaged and stimulated, she was able to traipse off into a world of her mind’s making and often snapped back into or was brought back into, a conversation, a setting, she had to desperately recall lest she looked dim and out of place.

“Ok, because you were talking to yourself. Not a conversation but mumbling about something while I am here, next to you, touching you, being intimate and showing you affection, all of that and you’re, I don’t know how else to express it, having one of those moments, I think, where whatever is in your head is creeping out into our shared space and I am finding it disconcerting.”

She giggled a bit, despite her needed maturity and his disapproval, “Henry, you’re such a special person, tolerating me the way you do. I am sorry, I was daydreaming and about us, too! But I liked what you were doing, it felt incredibly-” she reached for a word to conclude this matter, but found only, “nice.”

“Nice?” He sighed and did not smile as its tail end emerged, ” You’re supposed to be a poet.”

“I am a poet, but I can enjoy things, too.”