They face like fighters in a ring, muscles taunt and eyes wary as they begin to circle. A man and a woman, the age old couple. It’s a dance of power, a dance of passion. One moves. It’s a cautious testing of the waters – easily dodged. They’re only focused on one another, looking for any shift of weight that might give away the next move. They’re en sync, perfectly matched in these easy moments of playful swipes.
Then the feel of the fight changes and it’s almost tangible. A silent challenge is issued. He lunges, a graceful, lethal ripple of muscle as he reaches for her. She moves quickly so that he only has possession of her wrist instead of all of her. She can almost feel the annoyance rolling off of him in waves of heat for having not obtaining more of her. In a way, it is a sort a heat – the heat of two bodies beginning to entwine in something that is brazenly primal.
They continue to circle, the woman leaning away from her captor, nearly all of her weight supported solely by the strength of his grip. He could release her at any moment, let her fall to the ground, but there is an unspoken knowledge that he wouldn’t let go – he wouldn’t give her up so easily. He lunges forward again, and their eyes lock as he pulls on her arm, acting as a counter balance while his free hand reaches for and captures her other wrist. His fingers are like flesh-covered steel, so strong, so relentless. The struggle to be free has started - the real fight has begun.
Her anger and her instincts guide her as she moves with mounting aggression. She uses her weight, her flexibility, and her knowledge of her opponent to her advantage. She wrests her wrist free of his grasp and she turns, but that doesn’t stop him. He’s used to her tricks, they’re second nature to him now and he knows how to work with them or against them. He catches her again, changes his grip, and forces her to cross her arms over her chest. But it isn’t over.
It’s never over.
She squirms, not giving up, looking for any weakness. Her nails search for tender flesh, finds it, and pierces it – but he only laughs. She throws her weight against his arms, forcing him to either support her or release her, but he pulls her arms tight around herself, pulling her tighter against his chest. Supporting her.
They pause, more of her wanting to do so than his, but he waits, his hands acting as shackles, almost bruising. He doesn’t loosen, doesn’t move – just waits with infinite, infuriating patience. She’ll start up again when she’s ready. She’ll renew her efforts when she thinks he’s not paying attention. Or she’ll give up, give in, and try again. But for now, she stays there, cradled in the shelter of his body. It’s simple. It’s beautiful. It’s unchoreographed. A lull in a violent storm. And for a moment, it’s perfect.
He lets her go as if they had reached some silent agreement. She turns on the balls of her feet in a movement of pure grace that leaves them facing one another once more. Taking a few steps back, she raises her eyes to his and their gazes lock. They start again. A closed circuit of passion and power. Man and woman. Woman and man. The primal dance of time.
