Infamous Desire(9)

“You doing OK?” Alex says. He’s always solicitous, slowing down his pace to let me keep up with him.

I’m relatively fit, thanks to hours of cleaning as a maid.

“No problem,” I assure him.

I desperately want to talk to him about what his father said, but something keeps me mum. How do you talk to a man about his torrid past? How do you ask him if you are the one he intends to have for keeps – to love, honor and cherish until death (not family) do us part?

How do I even begin?

Darling, is the sex we are having the best you’ve ever had?

I really want to know how I compare with Gisele Bundchen, and yes, you’re allowed to lie.

I’m saved from having to talk too much as we ascend the mountain because the path veers steeply up from a point onwards. I have to use all my strength just to keep going and not stop, as I’m tempted to. My calf muscles start to ache something fierce, and my breaths come in short, sharp bursts.

“Anytime you want to rest, just holler,” Alex says, seemingly unaffected.

I shake my head stubbornly. I’m going to prove to myself I can climb this mountain by sheer willpower alone. In fact, not just this mountain.

I’m going to climb every mountain.

Bring them on!

“You know, you don’t have to push yourself so hard,” Alex says after a while.

“I can make it.”

“No need for mock bravado.”

“Shut.”

My shins start to feel the strain as we hit the halfway mark. The view here is incredible, and the wind stings my cheeks as it rushes down the mountain. Even though my chest is bursting and I’m starting to see the green stars of oxygen deprivation, I’m happy. I haven’t felt this carefree and relaxed in the longest time.

And there’s even something missing – like a shadow that isn’t there anymore.

Oh yes, I know what it is.

There’s no paparazzi!

“At least there are no photographers,” I manage to mumble.

“That’s why I like it here. The mountain hike is too much for them.”

We are at the three quarter mark when Alex holds up his hand. He indicates a little trek – choked with overgrown trees and rocky boulders – that splinters off the main path.

“Let’s go down this way. I want to show you something.”

I’m glad for the level ground, and I manage to catch my breath as I follow him down the curving little trek. The ground here is pebbled and precarious, and I have to watch where I put my feet. Alex lends me a hand now and again, and I take it, glad for his warmth and comfort.

A pair of startled eyes greets me around some shrubbery. I stop. To my delight, a mountain goat bounds away.

“There are plenty of them here,” Alex says. “Use to be a lot more – whole families of them. But their population dwindled with progress, as with everything else wild and free.”

We round a rocky bend and I stop in amazement. A cave mouth yawns at us, tucked snugly into the mountain like a chamber of secrets.

Alex grins. “When I was little, this used to be my hidey hole. Come on. I want to show you what’s inside.”

“You could climb this high when you were a little boy?”

“I climbed everywhere. I was a real monkey. Still am.”

We enter the cave. The temperature dips considerably and I draw my lined jacket closer around my neck. There’s an unusual stone table of sorts in the middle of the cave, which stretches back about twenty feet.

We shrug off our backpacks. Alex fumbles for his torch while I bring out my flask. There’s Gatorade inside and I take a long cool drink, the liquid spilling from the sides of my mouth in my haste to consume it.

“Liz, come over here and look at this.”

He shines upon a spot in the far wall. I wipe my mouth and scramble to my feet to join him. I feel like an intrepid explorer. There are cave markings on the wall – etched by hands far, far older than today’s mountain climbers. An etching of a stick man with frog legs squats before us – faceless but timeless.

“Oh wow,” I say.

“This cave has been studied by archeologists. The frog man is probably thousands of years old, drawn during Neanderthal times.” His face lights up as he gazes upon it, as he has gazed upon it many time throughout his formative years.

I study his profile. In the light of the torch, the outlines of his features are clean and well-delineated. He resembles a beautiful fresco on a cathedral wall, painted by Renaissance masters.

My heart aches for his beauty, for the love between us and the turmoil around us.

He turns to me.

“You’ve been quiet lately.”

“No, I haven’t.” I try to laugh it off.