The Distant Hills
(August 2004)
Ennis and the Artist stood at the top of the hill. They could see everything, the hill had the highest altitude for miles around, or so it seemed. It was a bright sunny day, but there was a cool breeze blowing. Ennis could feel it rushing onto his warm face, as he looked towards the hills off in the distance. Those hills were shrouded in fog, even on this clear day. Ennis and the Artist had reached the top of the hill after a long, quiet hike, past meadows and rushing streams. The Artist stared down to the valley below them.
“You know what I’m thinking? the Artist asked, with the intense look on his face.
Ennis glanced at him, but didn’t answer.
“What I was thinking was that, how close I am, but how far you are.”
“From what?” Ennis asked, still looking towards the hills.
The Artist turned to Ennis, his pale eyes lost in the brightness of the sun. He put one hand on Ennis’s shoulder, and the other hand on Ennis’s waist.
“I am so glad we finally decided to come here” the Artist said, pulling Ennis close. His lips were warm, his hands both firm and gentle. Ennis kept his eyes on the farthest hills, fading into the sky. But then he closed his eyes, and felt the hands, and tasted the lips. But then he suddenly pulled himself away.
“Far from what? Ennis asked again, as the distant hills disappeared behind the mist.