"Hi, baby, it's me," she said.

"Hi, yourself, sweetie," Joe said, panting a bit. "I just finished my run but I'll be there as soon as I hit the shower and throw on some smell-good.   Have you decided what you want to see?"

Linda pictured him standing there in his blue sweatsuit, sweat dripping from his masculine dark face, jacket zipped open to his trim waist, a white ribbed tee-shirt plastered to his broad chest.   Joe took his running seriously but that was obvious in the nicely chiseled six pack he touted.

"That's ... sort of why I called," she hedged.

"I know.   You would rather see me naked in the shower than watch the latest action flick, am I right?"

Linda knew he was smiling his great teeth smile. His special "anything you want baby because I'm all yours smile." A smile especially for her.

"No, silly," she chided. "Well, yes, you're right but ... I was wondering if you'd be too upset with me if I begged off tonight?"

"Is something wrong?" he asked, immediately concerned. "Are you alright?"

"No, nothing is wrong," she said quickly, "And, yes, I'm perfectly alright.   I've just had this really awful sinus headache all day and," she sighed, as though telling him was a painful but necessary thing to do, like getting a tooth pulled.   "I didn't mention it earlier because I took a couple of sinus pills and thought it would go away, but ..."

"Oh, my poor darling," he said, sympathetically.   "Is there anything I can do?   Anything I can get for you...?"

"Uhm ... how about a sledgehammer?" She was sure that sounded convincing.

He laughed.   She was right.

"Perhaps madam would care for something else?" he teased, in his best imitation butler's voice, "something less drastic and imminently more appealing?   A little sweet Chablis and charming me ... in front of your TV?"

"Please," she said, giggling. "If you make me laugh, it will only hurt more."   Then, "I just need to sleep, I think.   Let it pass.   Maybe we can go tomorrow?"

"Sure," he said, "tomorrow is fine.   Get your beauty rest, Love, and feel better.   I'll check on you in the morning."

"You're sure you don't mind?"

"Of course I don't mind, silly," he said. "Why should I mind?   We can always see a movie.   Besides, what kind of old man do you think I am anyway?   Hey, don't answer that!"

She laughed and so did he.

"Sweetheart," he went on, "get some rest and if you need anything -- anything at all, call me, okay?   Meanwhile, your old man will be right here watching reruns on the old man boob tube until I doze off into dirty old man dreamland featuring you as my star attraction."

"You nut."

"I'm your nut," he said huskily, his voice dropping low"...But, do call me if you need anything, okay?   Promise?"

"I promise."

"Good." He added, seriously, "Your old man loves you."

"I know," she said, "And, I love you, too,".

He wet-smacked a very loud kiss into the phone.   She laughed and wet-smacked one back.

She hung up the receiver and stared blankly into nothing.   Somewhere inside her was a vicious little knot, struggling to be a vicious big knot. Her stomach felt ill for real.   What was wrong with her?   She didn't want to lose Joe!   He was the best thing in her life.   Good-guy handsome, clever. A kind, intelligent, caring man!   With his own business!   His data research firm was fast becoming the largest and most successful minority owned business of its kind in the entire state.   His name would be one among Who's Who in Black Corporate America in another year and she fully expected he would propose about the same time.   He wore success as well as any man she could have imagined for herself and, she knew a life with him would be more than comfortable and most definitely in accord with what she had herself strived to attain.   A life and style of living that her parents and Joe's had struggled for and worked hard for and planned for them both.

But, Yaku was fire.   And, he burned in her mind like smoldering, hot charcoals.

She looked at her watch.   She would have to hurry.   Unbuttoning the frilly, white silk blouse she had just changed into, she dashed down the hall to her bedroom.   Zip went the short black jean skirt and both skirt and blouse were tossed into the closet hamper.   She dashed into the closet and reached into the back, retrieving a silky sheer lounger with tiny pink roses and tossed it onto the bed.   Yaku loved her in pink.   Next came the candles.   A must-have for Yaku.   He loved to play with her hair in wavering firelight.   She dashed back down the hall to the pantry, retrieved two scented candles and sprinted back to her bedroom in search of a lighter.   Lighter, check.   Sexy gown, check.   What next?   Oil.   Yaku was a man whose presence demanded fragrance.   He favored oils and Blue Nile drove him crazy.   Check.   Music.   Top 40 or Oldie/Goodies?   Oldie/Goodies.   She flipped the radio on and twisted the dial to AM 1640.

The Fifth Dimension harmoniously crooned, Can you surry, can you picnic oh oh oh...Can you surry, can you picnic oh oh oh...

How apropos, she thought.   A Stone Soul Picnic* for a stone soul man.

She met him at a street fair in Macon.   He was an artist, a painter.   But, before she ever laid eyes on him, she was fascinated by the depth of perception in his work.   His innate feel for color blends.   With vivid strokes of flame reds and haunting blues, he depicted a world bursting with righteousness and rebirth.   Colors splashed like wild things clawing at the canvas, desperate to reveal truths and age-old knowledge and the wisdom of time.   One painting in particular mesmerized her.   Men and women evolving from trees, their strong, brown libs intertwined, stretching to the sky, while their lower bodies, their roots, found solace in rich dark soil.   Some of the tree people had fully evolved, broken free, and had become dancing, fairy streaks of color across a crystalline, blue sky.

So enraptured was she by the painting of the tree people that she didn't hear or see the painter until he appeared suddenly at her side where he leaned in close to her and whispered, "The tree people are free, sister.   Free from the bonds of the world.   But they are ever tied to that from which they are freed.   Ever safe in the knowledge that their freedom is of substance for though they dance with abandon in the skies, their roots are ever present in the hues of their selves."

She had turned then and looked into his eyes, dusty black and penetrating.   He was majestic.   Regal in manner and speech, his every move as nuanced and fluid as the oil on his canvas.

He looked back at her and, after what seemed forever, took her hand and asked, "Do you know who you are, Sister?"

Surry down to a stone soul picnic / there will be lots of time and wine...

Later, he told her he had watched her staring at his work for sometime.   He said he saw in her eyes, the torment in her heart, her need to be free, he had said.   Her need to soar above the earth with abandon and the knowledge that her roots were ever profound.

Red yellow honey, sassafras and moonshine / Red yellow honey / Sassafras and moonshine (moonshine)

She wriggled out of the bone white panty hose and slipped the thin lace lounger over her head.   Removing the heavy barrettes that pinned her hair to either side of her face, she stood before the mirror and brushed her hair down.

Stoned soul, stoned soul / Surry down to a stoned soul picnic / Surry down to a stoned soul picnic

She had been uncomfortable with the emotions the painter, Yaku, had stirred in her.   Uncomfortable with the urge she felt to touch his skin, his hair like black wire coiled down his back.   She left that day without saying a word to him.   Only to find herself in front of his booth the very next day and the day after until one pale, sunny afternoon, he touched her.

Rain and sun come in akin / And from the sky come the Lord and the lightning / And from the sky come / The Lord and the lightning

He was sharing the motivation for one of his works and casually dropped his arm about her shoulder.

Stoned soul, stoned soul / Surry on soul

She tensed immediately, sensing such an electric bolt of raw heat at his touch, her knees buckled.   She knew he felt her tension as though it was his own when he leaned into her and whispered, "Sister, you must let me paint your soul free."

Surry, Surry, Surry, Surry

She looked into his dusty black eyes and suddenly, his arms were around her and, there, in the artists marketplace among the colored beads and paintings of light and sculptures of life, he kissed her tenderly.   Slowly. Deliciously and deliberately.   She did not resist nor did she refuse when he suggested she leave with him.   That same sunny afternoon, he painted her soul free.

There'll be trains of blossoms (there'll be trains of blossoms) / There'll be trains of music (there'll be music) / There'll be trains of trust, trains of golden dust / Come along and surry on sweet trains of thought / Surry on down

She shuddered with anticipation as her reflection in the mirror arched to meet the lover who had not yet arrived, his strong hands cupping her face as his soft, full mouth kissed her lips and the tip of her nose and each delicate eyelid.

Can you surry, can you surry / Surry down to a stoned soul picnic / Surry down to a stoned soul picnic / There'll be lots of time and wine

"I am Yaku," he had whispered when first he held her to him. "Light bearer from an old and ancient world, come to share intimate details of the visage beyond the realm of tangible."

Red yellow honey, sassafras and moonshine / Red yellow honey / Sassafras and moonshine (moonshine)

He languished in her inner self, spilling part of his ancestral reality into her world as he spoke.   He drew her breath sharply into himself as easily as he pressed his flesh into her thighs and they breathed as one.   His light danced for her, leaping tall and high like white hot flames, old and ancient themselves, that burn trees in the forest quickly but for a very long, long time.

Red yellow honey /Sassafras and moonshine (moonshine)

He teased her with his warmth, caressed her with his words and reassured her that, in this light, she was extraordinarily unique. In this light, her majesty equalled his own.   In this light, she could go nova and explode in the nothingness of time held space.

Stoned soul, stoned soul / Stoned soul yeah

The doorbell rang.   Startled from her reverie, she accidentally knocked Joseph's picture off the nightstand.   Quickly, she quickly retrieved it and stopped to glance at Joe's beautiful face smiling back at her.   Her Joseph.   Wearing his dark gray Armani suit and the Brent Morgan yellow tie she had bought for his birthday.   Smiling his handsome, great teeth grin kind of smile.   A smile meant especially for her.   A smile she loved.   A man she loved.

Surry on soul...

The door bell rang again.

Surry...Surry ...

"Coming!" she yelled and then, to the photograph, she whispered, "Forgive me, Joe, please.   This is the last time, I promise." Then, tossing the picture quickly into the nightstand drawer, she walked, no, she ran to the door, opened it wide and poured herself into the arms of Yaku.

Yaku left at dawn.   They had caressed and soothed and held each other throughout the night and she was exhausted.   Still, she savored the afterness.   Counted all the kisses.   Pictured his beautiful, moist face above hers.   Played back all the words he had used to love her.   Moaning softly into her pillow, she had cooed herself to sleep until the sharp rays of the near mid-morning sun fell hot on her face.

Time, she thought foggily.   What time must it be?   Then, she heard the telephone.

"Good morning, love-of-my-life," Joseph said, cheerily. "Headache gone?"