Any activity becomes romantic when you haul your love interest along with you. The weather finally cleared and my honey accompanied me for the bog walk. Bogs are amazing biomes; wet all the time and teeming with life. Unfortunately for the bog that day the life included us.
I took one step off the path; my boot sank into whatever spongy earth lived under the moss. When I started to fall I shared the pleasure by clutching my honey’s belt loop. Arms flailing my honey still managed to maneuver me onto the bottom for cushioning.
Shhhthwap! Aah! The bog welcomed us.
I lay very still arms and legs outstretched pretending we’d landed on a waterbed. The day was perfect at 82 degrees Fahrenheit and 56% humidity. What wasn’t wet before soon soaked up murky water. When the six, eight, three-thousand-legged creature slithered across my neck, I was done dreaming and went straight to screaming. My honey smothered a few of my favorite words. “Holy Sugar and Flying Buttress.”
My elbow sank when I tried to rise and I fought for control like a sailor on a capsizing raft. My honey flailed in the opposite directions and we banged head then used them for leverage along with a rotting log for support we maneuvered like a limping crab back onto the path.
We stared at each other. Awed and turned on because of the exertion. We’d shot past wet t-shirt contests and mud wrestling. We were covered in bog guts and wrapped together sloppy kissing when we heard the “Ahem.” Shouldn’t clichéd throat clearing be banned?
The naturalist gave us the stern principal look. “We must stay on the marked trail to preserve the bog.”
I know he was more offended by the display of affection and his affectation of authority brought out my sass. “Looks like the bog proved it knows how to defend itself.
THE END
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