Love & Sex in a Minefield

by Jean Austin

  “Stay,” he says. “Don’t move, okay?”

  A nervous, “Okay,” is all I can muster. Anton runs back to the truck. Looking over my shoulder, I watch as he jogs to one of the towers housing the spotlights. He flicks a switch and some of the lights go out. To my horror, he runs over to the other tower and kills the last of the lights.

  Emma, Emma, Emma—what the hell have you gotten yourself into? Oh dear God. I’ve let a complete stranger drag me into the middle of a minefield in the dark of night. What’s he going to do? He could murder me—rape me and roll my body down the hill. My limp corpse would flail around and set off enough landmines to cover any evidence of his crime. I can read the headline already—American woman gets lost in the woods and wanders into a minefield. Oh, the kids!

  I know nothing about this man. I feel an overwhelming desire to run, but I’ve been plunged into darkness. I have no idea where the flags are. I’ve turned a little while watching Anton, and lost my bearings relative to the markers. I don’t dare step more than a few feet until my eyes adjust to the dark. What the hell am I going to do?

  Music plays in the distance. Music? Anton rummages around in the cab of the truck, grabbing something in the dim light. He slams the door and walks toward me. I’m shaking.

  “A toast,” he says, striding up to me with two champagne flutes in one hand and a bottle in the other.

  “I—” I’m still trying to adjust as he hands me the glasses. Anton unwinds the foil wrapping and twists the cork. The champagne pop startles me. The cork flies into the darkness. Bubbles roll down the neck of the bottle. Anton laughs. He pours two glasses.

  “To brave Jimmy James,” he says, taking one of the glasses from me, “and our miraculous escape from the minefield.”

  We touch glasses and drink, although I’m more reserved than him, sipping softly at the bubbles.

  “What do you think?” he asks, gesturing to the night.

  “I—I’m still trying to take it all in,” I confess.

  “Majestic, huh?” he asks, pointing at the view across the hills. Funny, I couldn’t see this place for what it was before now. We’re on the edge of a mountain with a ridge that runs for miles in a vast curve stretching to the north, looking out over the broad valley easily a thousand feet below. Tiny specks of light mark distant villages.

  “Yes, it is,” I say, sipping more freely at the champagne.

  As my eyes adjust to the darkness, the brilliance of the stars becomes apparent. Like everyone, I’ve looked up into the night sky and seen tiny pinpricks of light on countless occasions, but I don’t think I’ve ever really seen the stars for what they are before. The view above me is a glimpse into eternity. Rather than being random, the stars are clustered into an arc, which I’m guessing is me peering long ways through the plane of our galaxy. There are clouds, but not white, fluffy terrestrial clouds. These are the dark clouds in space, lying well beyond the outer reaches of our solar system, winding their way through the sky like ink spilt on a page.

  “It’s…”

  “It’s reality,” Anton says. “We get so busy with life, we forget to look up.”

  “We do,” I say, laughing, wondering why it took me traveling halfway around the world to recognize something I could have seen from my own backyard had I cared to look. The song playing in the background finishes and another begins.

  Anton says, “Norah Jones, she’s American.”

  “She is,” I say, recognizing her voice.

  “We dance,” Anton says, still holding the bottle of champagne as he takes my hand and slips his other arm around my waist. I laugh. I’m dancing in a minefield.

  Anton is gentle, shuffling his boots in the dust. We turn, pulling each other close, losing ourselves in the moment. I’m old fashioned when it comes to dancing. Rather than high impact aerobics and breaking out in a sweat, I’d rather hang my arms around my partner’s neck and face them, moving slowly to the beat. Anton slips his arms around my back and down to my waist, resting the champagne bottle against my ass—not the most romantic gesture in history, but I don’t mind.

  We stare into each other’s eyes, cloaked in darkness as we sway to the music. Our boots shuffle over the clumps of grass. Anton leads, but not simply because he’s male. I catch him peering at our feet occasionally. He’s keeping an eye on those flags so I don’t have to.

  “Who are you?” I ask softly, looking up at him. “Where have you been all this time?”

  He smiles. “I was wondering the same thing.”

  Our lips touch. We don’t kiss as such, but rather linger, savoring the moment, rocking gently with the music. I want more. Anton responds, but with a tenderness I’ve never known. In high school, kissing was a competitive sport—tickling tonsils seemed to be the main objective, but Anton is reserved. My tongue touches his lips, and then his teeth, gliding over his mouth. He groans, responding with no more than my lead, which is a delight.

  “Look up,” he whispers. Above me, the stars seem to come to life. They’re radiant, stretching across the sky like scattered paint falling from Rembrandt’s palette. Anton kisses the side of my neck softly and I feel a tingle run through my body as he says, “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely,” I say, never having experienced anything this sensual before. The dark of night, a cool breeze descending after the heat of the day, the beauty of the stars, the champagne, the music, the tenderness of his touch—I’m in heaven.

  Anton sips champagne from the bottle. He’s dropped his glass. Whether that was on purpose or not, I have no idea, but the glass has rolled beyond the markers into the minefield. Champagne seeps into the soil. Anton steps back slightly, offering to pour me another glass, but I take the bottle from him and have a swig. Not the most ladylike gesture, but I’m drunk—not on alcohol, though, I haven’t had nearly enough—I’m giddy, in the moment, intoxicated by his presence. Anton laughs. He’s laughing a lot, which for me is contagious, and yet although he’s happy, his laughter comes across a little nervous, which I find curious.

  “You think I’m funny?” I ask pushing him with a coy touch. Anton feigns losing his balance, falling back onto the slope. I have no inhibitions about falling to my knees before him, wanting to lie down with him.

  “You are so American,” he says, taking the bottle and sipping from the thin neck.

  “You have no idea,” I reply, unsure whether being American is a good thing or not. From his tone of voice, I’m guessing there’s no judgment involved, simply a statement of fact.

  I take another swig of champagne, but I rush and some of it spills out of my mouth, running down my neck. Anton leans forward, licking the champagne from my skin, and I laugh, feeling ticklish.

  He sets the bottle to one side and leans back, resting his hands behind his head. I prop my elbows on his chest, resting my head on my hands and looking down at him with wonder. What am I doing here? I’m married. I have children.

  “You’re thinking,” he says. “You think too much.”

  “I do—do I?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how do you know that?” I ask. “You barely know me.”

  “Your eyes,” he says. “They betray you—just as they did in the hallway when we first met. Eyes are the gateway to the soul. I can see you. I see when you look away. I see when you look up, when you look around, and when you finally look at me—staring me in the eye. I see the thoughts driving those motions as though they were words printed on a page.”

  He’s right. Just the very act of considering his point has me glance to one side, breaking eye contact for a moment as I process his rationale, and forcing me to laugh at how ridiculous I feel.

  “See,” he says, smiling. I screw up my face a little, feeling caught out, but not in a bad way. It’s nice to be understood.

  “So you think you know what I’m thinking?” I ask, unbuttoning his shirt. “What am I thinking now?”

  “The same thing as me,” he replies. Anton runs his hands over my hair,
across my shoulders, and slowly down my arms. Most men go straight for the breasts. I have no doubt he’ll get there, but it’s nice not to become caught up in a mad race. I open his shirt, pulling it from beneath his cummerbund, and running my fingers over his hairy chest. With my nails, I scratch at his pecs, enjoying the feeling of his muscles trembling beneath my touch. He’s nervous, which isn’t what I expected. To me, it’s a relief to realize we both feel vulnerable.

  We kiss. This time, we lose ourselves. My hands run up over the stubble on his cheeks, while his hands slide down to my waist, slipping under my shirt. His fingers are rough and calloused against my hips, but I don’t mind. If anything, his touch drives me wild.

  I slip my arms out of my jacket, tossing it on the dirt beside us. Anton’s hands glide over my back, and beneath my shirt. His fingers pull gently at the hook on my bra strap as we kiss. I run my hands up through his hair, clawing at his scalp. He fumbles, working with the clasp, but as much as he twists and turns the hooks, the bra strap holds fast.

  “You’re rushing,” I say, biting at his lip. I lean forward and kiss his neck. “You shouldn’t rush when handling explosives.”

  “Hah,” he says, slowing down, and moving his fingers with careful deliberation despite my best efforts to distract him by kissing passionately at his earlobe. Within a few seconds, I feel the elastic around my ribcage loosen, and my bra slips away from my skin. I sit astride Anton, leaning back and pulling my shirt over my head, followed by the loose bra. Anton touches me as though he’s holding an antique—with the tenderness of someone taking care not to break a fragile vase. His calloused hands slide over my skin, sending shivers through my body.

  We roll over so I’m lying on my jacket. For me, sex has always been somewhat clumsy. There’s a point between passion and pleasure where clothing needs to be shed, and at that point, pants become horribly impractical. I do my best to work my jeans over my hips and down to my knees, but there’s no easy, graceful way to strip down while lying in the dirt. I rearrange my jacket so it’s under my body, but I’ve started pulling down my pants before I removed my boots, and I’m getting tangled. Anton has the right sequence, pulling off his boots and tossing them to one side before taking off his pants. As for me, I’m in danger of becoming twisted in a knot. We both laugh as I struggle with my clothes, losing any sense of dignity I have. Anton, though, doesn’t seem to mind. Beneath the stars, his eyes radiate warmth. He helps me, and we both chuckle at how ridiculous we must look buck-naked in a minefield.

  “Please tell me there aren’t any security cameras,” I say, reaching out and touching at his chest.

  “One on each tower,” he replies, pointing. I grab my shirt, clutching it to my chest as I turn to look. Anton’s hand glides across the small of my back as he whispers in my ear, “I was joking.”

  “Don’t joke about things like that,” I say, batting him playfully with my shirt. I can’t believe how comfortable and at ease I am with him. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt this way with a guy—not even Paul. I’ve always felt naked—stripped of all defenses. With Anton, I feel natural—not in need of defense.

  Neither of us are in a rush, being content to savor the moment together. My hands linger on his arms, feeling the texture of his muscles. His hands caress my shoulders. He kisses my neck, then my collarbone and chest as he slowly descends to my breasts. I tremble beneath his touch. His soft lips kiss my nipples. My hands reach down to his groin, touching at his stiff penis.

  There’s an awareness shared between us, a bond that only touch can adequately capture. Our bodies entwine, combining to become one, and I barely notice as he mounts me. My hands run over his butt, feeling the flex and stress of his muscles. My sense of touch is amplified. Just the slightest warmth from his breath drifting over my breasts excites me. The motion of his hands near my body causes a tingle of electricity to dance across my skin. Anton rides up and down on me, thrusting, slowly building in intensity as I rock back and forth on the jacket. Sweat drips from his body.

  The men I’ve known have all treated sex like it was a business transaction. It’s as though someone gave them a jackhammer and told them to break up the pavement—and quickly, before anyone notices the concrete’s being removed. They just don’t get that sex is a conversation conducted without words. It’s the height of non-verbal communication, a connection, an extension of the love felt between two people. Strength needs to be matched with tenderness—speed with kindness—passion with gentleness.

  I feel a sense of warmth swelling within me, starting between my thighs and slowly radiating throughout my body. My mind disengages. I’m feeling rather than thinking. Above me, the stars seem to explode with light bursting through the darkness. I can barely breathe. On he goes, pressing hard against me. My mind is flooded with life. Colors seem to break around me. My body shakes and quivers.

  I grab at the dirt beside me. My fingers cling to the earth, holding on for dear life as the crescendo builds. A thin metal strand gets caught beneath my palm, and I feel it flex as a marker rebounds with its small orange flag springing back in place, highlighting the edge of the minefield. I don’t know where I am. We rolled over and I’m unsure where we’re lying. I’m in such a state, I simply don’t care. My body throbs, pulsating in unison with Anton. He groans, arching his back as he shudders, shaking with the release of passion.

  Every cell within my body seems to explode, bursting with energy. A tremor traverses my muscles, starting from my waist and rippling outward down my legs and up to the top of my head. Suddenly, I’m sailing free of gravity, floating on a cloud. My mind is overwhelmed, and I drift slowly back to Earth like a leaf falling from a tree.

  Beads of sweat cover my body. In the afterglow, the chill of the night descends, only it seems to intensify the relief I feel. I gasp, pulling Anton close and wrapping my legs around him, wanting to hold him tight. He pants, catching his breath. Neither of us speak. We lie there under the gaze of the heavens, soaking in the light from ten thousand suns. As he relaxes, his weight bears down on me, but there’s comfort to be found in our union. I feel safe—secure.

  Anton buries his face in my hair. The warmth of his breath on my neck is invigorating. He rolls to one side, lying beside me and running his fingers from the nape of my neck, around my collarbone, and down to my navel. His hand lingers on my hips, gently caressing my groin. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt so relaxed and at ease before. I’m naked, but not just in the physical sense of the word. I feel exposed, but for once it doesn’t worry me. There’s nothing to hide. There’s no reason to hide.

  “You’re cold,” he says, noticing me shiver as a cool breeze drifts across the open field. “There’s a blanket in the hut.” Anton gets to his feet, grabbing his pants and slipping them on. As much as I’d like to continue basking in his presence, we need to talk about what just happened. I don’t bother with my bra, but I slip on my underwear, my t-shirt, and pants. Anton jogs back with a blanket and a pillow.

  “I thought we could…” he says, not finishing his sentence. I must look like I’m ready to abandon ship. I’m not. I pat my jacket, wanting him to sit next to me. He throws out the blanket and we lie back, looking up at the stars. Anton offers me the pillow, so I scrunch up my jacket for him to use. Although there’s only been a handful of words spoken between us in the last half an hour, we seem to understand each other, anticipating the other’s needs. It’s nice to be with someone that’s selfless. It means there’s joy in reciprocating even the simplest of gestures.

  “Do you ever wonder about the stars?” Anton asks.

  “Not as much as I should,” I say, staring into the abyss. “Back home, they’re blotted out by street lights and advertising signs.”

  “We are children of the stars,” he says.

  “We are,” I reply, reaching out and holding his hand. I’m not sure where this is going. Hell, I wasn’t sure where we were going when we left the cottage. As for making love in a minefield—clueless. Now? Does it ma
tter? The warmth of his hand, the sheer immensity of the stars, the faint streak of a meteor tracing its fatal route across the sky, blazing through the heavens in a short burst of fire—words fail me—nature says what I cannot express. Anton must sense that too, as he gently squeezes my hand.

  “What brought you to Zepa?” he asks, not taking his eyes off the dark sky with its wondrous sparks of light. I don’t know how to answer him. I’ve been so busy lying to everyone, I’m not sure what the truth is anymore. Do I tell him about Paul? What should I say, that I shot at my husband, took off with my kids and fled to Europe? What kind of loony am I? Don’t answer that, Emma. Take the Fifth.

  “We’re all running from something,” Anton says. “You. Me. Branka. Julius the baker. You’d be surprised… No one comes to Zepa for the Krofne—they’re all running from something—running from the past.”

  “Branka?” I ask, unable to imagine she’d be running from anything.

  “Her father was a colonel under General Mladić during the civil war. He led the assault on Srebrenica.”

  I’m quiet. I knew there was a war here back in the 90s, but I’m ignorant of what happened or why.

  “Men, women, children—they told them they’d have safe passage. Put them on buses. The kids were excited, thankful, waving as they left, glad to flee a war zone, only the buses stopped just outside the city. The women were raped and killed. The men were shot in their thousands, their bodies dumped in the open drainage ditches running along side the road.”

  I had no idea.

  “How can we be so cruel to ourselves?” Anton asks. He sighs. “After the war, her father was knifed outside a popular bar. The ambulance arrived too soon, so the paramedics waited for him to bleed out before they put his limp corpse on a stretcher.”