There’s an intensity to his attention, the light in his eyes and the deep gravel in his voice seem to combine and connect inside you, the periphery of your vision blurs, only his smiling eyes remain in focus, even the sound of the chakra playing on the little CD seems dampened, muted.
And for a moment there’s nothing, a timelessness, a sense of relief, as if you and he might be the only two people to ever occupy this singularity of connection.
You’re shaken as your self-consciousness gasps for air, where seemingly your anxiety had almost drowned in the deep calm waters of his connection.
But now it comes thrashing up to the surface, panicking, and your cheeks flush a little, suddenly aware you have no idea how long you’ve been silent since hearing his question.
Defensively you buy yourself some time, revealing your own smile, your eyes wide and bright and filled with a radiant beauty. A look you cherish and reserve for only the deepest or worthiest lover.
You watch his responses, his sigh, his expression opening just as flower might bloom in the morning sun. He can feel the authenticity of your attraction and he loves it.
Composed, you find your voice and confidently craft your reply: “It’s for you to choose, there’s no right or wrong way, Days or Dies”
“Are you the owner?” he asks respectfully.
“Yes I am. So, what brings you out to these fair islands?”
“Well, I guess I knew I needed some time alone, I’ve been running hard for a number of years and I just wanted to unplug, decompress, recharge and reboot, that kind of thing”
“Well you’ve come to a great spot, the beaches here are some of the best among the islands”
“No doubt, I’m thankful for the beauty of it all” he says, his eyes drifting away to the edges of your outline where he appreciates a halo of your own golden light, and finds there a clue to the aura he senses, and seemingly shares.
The timbers beneath his boots creak as he shifts his weight and begins carefully moving his way around your intimate little space, stalking the shelves like a curious browser lost in an old San Francisco beatnik cafe or bookshop, fascinated by the possibilities of what he might discover or find.
You follow his line of sight as he pauses at a small glass bowl. Inside remains a single stone. The label reads: Rhodonite.
He dips his hand into the bowl and lifts out the single stone. And you gasp, sensing his touch, his connection.
His fingers close around the stone, holding its smooth weight against his palm, and you feel the intimacy of his attention, the energy of the Rhodonite grounding him, just as it might if he were walking through ancient woodland with his hand slipped inside yours.
“The beauty is in their weakness” he offer softly, perhaps talking to himself, admiring the cleavage in the geology of the stone. “The more vulnerable, the more attractive.” he continues, approaching the counter, then asking you directly: “Excuse me, but do you have another one of these?”
He’s smiling brightly, his eyes hopeful, holding out his open hand, as if wanting your trust and offering you his commitment with this one last lone smooth polished pebble of Rhodonite stone.