Sliding my hand around her thigh from the top surface to the under parts of her leg, she moaned as I caressed her hard and yet delicately.  She was not yet sweating but I am sure her black lace underwear was wet.  It had cute little baby pink tiny ribbons on them.  She was a girly girl?  Not really.  She was feminine but not coquettish.  She has long straight hair, not bouncy curls.  She wore black leather jackets and black dress pants, not dresses or skirts.  She wore black knee high boots and not stilletos or high heels. 
    She was my kind of girl?  Yes, but not quite.  I usually go for women of the rougher sort.  The most feminine girls, like ballerinas were dainty and beautiful, but too noble for me.  I liked girls who played sports.  I liked girls who did not just baby sit and live for children, but who were into a career of their own.  Business women, lawyers, strong women.  And Rachel was one of them.  She had blonde hair but dyed it black.  She wanted to look more serious I guess.  Black was more emo, or goth maybe.  But I don’t think she was going for these looks.  She just liked the color black.  She said it was more professional than other colors, and classy like the little black dress.  Or funerals and weddings where men wear black tux or suits.
    Rachel sat amongst the harsh blue roses and came to me to lay down across my lap on the yellow sunflowers and moss that lay on the hill.  The flowers were full bloom that day.  She said though that she liked half opened flowers best because they reminded her of “potential.”  That big open flowers reminded her of death, not the celebration of life.  She was consumed with the thought of death.  She thought if she read a good book she would have to stay all night to read it before she dies.  That if she is eating a good morsel of food she needs to finish eating the meal before she dies.  That if she likes ANYTHING at all, a sunset, a broadway show, a friendly party, or a dialogue-that she will ultimately die before the sweetest part of the marrow was consumed.
    I said she needed to see the psychologist.  And she laughed.  Doesn’t everyone think this way?  “I don’t,” I said.  “But I did think I was going to die early once when I was young.” 
    “I thought that too,” she said.  “That I would get assassinated because I will be so important of a person.  That the human race will be jealous of me and so kill me like they did Socrates or Jesus.  Now don’t you tell me I have delusions of grandeur.  I know myself.  I know what I can be.”
    “I believe you,” I said.
    She sighed and turned over.  No her head was not in my crotch.  She turned to the side facing outward.  If she were facing my tummy it would have been boring don’t you think.  So looking out at the world she used my knee for her head and caressed both sides of my body, my back and my feet as if grasping a soft pillow.  “All we need now are some birds.  Or an orchestra playing a sweet lullaby.  Or better yet for it to be night time and to have a music box playing…but then that’s when I start getting a little weird.  Maybe I ought to be alone for that.”
    “What do you mean by weird.”
    “Don’t ask.”
    She started dreaming about what happens when she gets to be alone to cry herself to sleep.  Her tears get into her hair and ears.  Her eyes get puffy and pink.  I forgot that we were undressed.  I guess even by the light of day no one could see her when they were out around the wild forest.  The clear stream rippled down the hill into a cascading waterfall at the end where there is a pool where they can splash about and swing on tree vines.  Well, that is what you’re SUPPOSED to do isn’t it?  Not like fishing or going out on sponge boards.  There are no shells to mine in the dirt.  There are no polished pretty pebbles that sparkle in the sunlight.  Just rocky pointy white and red rocks.  Maybe if the whole stream had marbles on the bottom of them it would look prettier.  It would be softer to walk on too.  Blue marbles.  Pink marbles.  Clear marbles, OoOOo.  It would look like the endless depths of the stream.
    Rachel laughed at a butterfly that almost kept knocking me on the head.  I kept shooing it away but she said if it lands on me that it will be good luck.  “No I think you’re thinking of lady bugs,” I said.  And she laughed some more.
    What a couple Rachel and I make.  Her so adventurous and strong, me more of a feminine type than even she is…a gentleman.  I am graceful, she is viscious and looks like she is always in attack mode.  It looks like she is going to trip me like the many other soccer players she’s played against.  She also told me about the time she gave a girl a bloody nose by running into her at first base because she straddled the bag wrong.  People think we are odd, that we don’t match.  She hates dogs and so do I though.  Their poops are bigger and stinker than cats.  And they drool.  But cats are also gross because they throw up fur balls.  No we rather have no pets at all.  Not even a fish.  Instead, we have statues of animals: a peacock, a crane, a flamingo, a parrot…I just noticed they were all birds.