Red Ants

Red Ants
by Robert Aquino Dollesin

August. Late afternoon in a meadow overgrown with high grass and wishing weeds. Lydia and I slip out of our overclothes and carefully drape them over a dry log. Looking at her in just her bra and panties, I sigh with regret and desire, and run my thumbs along the inside of the elastic waistband of my boxers.

"Ready?" she says.

"We don't have to do this," I reply.

"We don't have to do this," she repeats with wry amusement. She shakes her head. Then, very seriously she adds, "You hurt me real bad last night."

Together we walk several yards across the grass to a clear patch where a half dozen or so sandy mounds full sprout up from the ground. You might think the ground is rolling back and forth until you realize its full of sprawling red ants.

"Go ahead," Lydia says.

I curl my toes and plea with my eyes.

"You'll do it if you're really sorry."

I nod and lie on top of the sand with my face to the sky. It doesn't take long for the ants to react to the intrusion, swarming angirly over my unprotected skin.

Lydia lets out a deep breath and lies down beside me.

"Don't," I tell her. "You didn't do anything wrong."

Shifting on the ground, she says, "I want you to know I love you."

Moments later, as the red ants scissor their pincers into our skin, Lydia closes her eyes and winces. I feel the burn on my own skin, but keep my eyes open and stare up at the bright summer sky, wondering what this is supposed to prove.

After several minutes Lydia scrambles to her feet and hops to the high grass, where she begins brushing ants off her skin. "Get up," she says, glaring at me while she continues to swipe at her legs. "Get up and help me get these ants off."

My arms and legs and chest are covered with crawling ants and burning red bumps. Even as I roll off the earth onto the grass, the ants continue to sting.

We spend the next several minutes slapping red ants off one another. Finally, without speaking she takes my hand and leads me to where we'd left our clothes.

I tug my shirt over my head. Lydia bends forward and uses her fingers to ruffle any remaining ants out of her hair. Glancing up at me, she straightens, pushes her hair out of her face and scratches the reddened skin beneath her right breast. "Why are you looking at me like that?" she says. "You think what we just did was stupid, don't you?"

"Sort of," I say.

"Yeah," she says. "It was. It really was."