He had been sitting there by the riverside--
That was, by far, his favorite place to sit, you know--
And he was dreaming of Ella.
He always dreamed of Ella when he sat beside the river.

But he knew that he and Ella were never to be.
He was black, as you recall.  As black as midnight in December.
And she was as pale as a snowflake that might fall in the same cold month.
She was Miss Ella, daughter of the master.

But, how he loved her.
How he ached when he saw her repeatedly being called upon by men.
Silly men they were.
White men who didn't know how to hold a door open properly.
Oh, they were so foolish.

He knew how to open a door the right way; how to bow and let the mistress enter first.
He knew.
But he also knew that he was black as midnight in December.
And she was as pale as a snowflake that might fall in the same cold month.

And yet, sitting by the riverside, it did not matter that his skin was ebony and hers ivory.
All that mattered was they were both young.
And she was beautiful.

He had watched her all morning while he picked cotton in the field behind her house.
She had been on the back porch drinking lemonade.
Sipping the lucky drink slowly, sensuously.
How he had wished he were the glass in her delicate hands, brushing her lips with his touch.

They had told him to keep his eyes on his work.
Told him to stop watching Miss Ella.
He would pay.

But, regardless of what the overseers and other slaves said,
He could not tear his eyes from her beauty.

So he paid.

They had dragged him from the field, his eyes still caressing her body.
And the white, burly men had attacked him with all their hatred.
And blood streaked, he was released,
Given leave to go down to the river to clean up.

As he sat beside the river, he did not care about his scars
Or notice the pain.
He was relieved.
He had been given a few moments of respite.
A few moments of leave to dream about Ella.