That Day

Day 51: It begins well enough in New England.

In September, young college men arrive on a campus positively lousy women - supple, buxom, flirty, eager, curious women, many of whom are, for the first time, without their parents supervision. Their shorts are shorter than expected, their hair softer, their eyes beckoning, their staunch inhibitions faded to vestigial mores by an insistent summer sun.

These college men, each of them, are paralyzed by the veritable galaxy of dazzling women, taunted and moved, indecipherably inspired as so much secret flesh dances from quad to quad, winking, like a promise, like a dare. The young men would act if not for the sheer improbability of the spectacle. Is it a trap? Are they the predators or the prey? Where do they begin? HOW do they begin?

But all this hesitation is mere pretense, masking a most profound an unadulterated feeling of gratitude. They  don't deserve this, but... they will take it. And, as the hesitation gives way to adventure, pursuit, hunger, and fantasy, they break from their fragile prisons of insecurity and begin the game that's been in play since time immemorial.

And then, winter comes.

To be sure, there is a necessary pass through Fall, but, here in New England, fall lasts no more than a week or two - ample warning for the natives, and an object lesson for newcomers. It is warm enough to go without a jacket until it isn't anymore. And, by then, you best be prepared to shovel.

And at that, all the young things that danced about, heedless of convention and daddy's unwavering moral standards, cocoon themselves in voluminous jackets and long pants, neutered by necessity. "Male" and "female" become play words, incidental abstractions, rumors. The once fertile land of opportunity and promise is, almost at once, rendered fallow and inert with ambiguity.

For many months afterward, the game lingers in hiatus. The men and boys, no less inspired than on the first day, are forced to funnel their energies elsewhere; football, basketball, Call of Duty. The vixens hide in plain sight - the men see but do not see, smell but do not pursue. Thereby this hesitation, coming from without, is worst than the first. They know what they want, yet cannot know. It is barren. It is confusion.

And then, winter goes.

To be sure, Spring happens, but, here in New England, it is a cursory greeting lasting just long enough for the birds to return. But, in that time, there is a day - the first upon which the long dormant sun first announces herself, compelling the and the old snow to flee and Earth to give up her green things.

Also on that day, - here commonly known by all men as That Day - they emerge.

The long legs and slender fingers are loosed from pants and gloves. The hair falls from beneath the wool caps , tender earlobes uncovered from earmuffs. The androgynous play of heavy coats and collars fades away, in an instant, as if it were never there, as if it might never return. And the shorts - the wonderful, heavenly, gift of shorts - they return.

A thousands limbs and lips and eye try out the sunlight, as if for the first time, and every male so inclined and inspired by the promise made by Fall, watches as the promise is fulfilled before their very eyes, a parade of eager songbirds drenched in the first tethers of honest sunlight strolling across the quad, unaware yet aware, winking with their hips, beginning the game anew.