She doesn't exist. Save for in the recesses of his mind and in stories told or written. Her impression first appeared in the reflection of Beautiful Water. An idea of something never lost, for it was never found, and never would be in A War To End All Wars. The impossibility of a perfect fit, including the people who would enter his life with her, In-Love-In-Law. Her body's Gravity, holding him more powerfully than Earth's. An initial encounter based upon being needed at the right time, creating a brief - and endearing - moment of culture shock... she tells him he shouldn't ask for candy, but Lollies, Stupid. A comparative and (mostly) honest analysis of how real women have enamored him in A-M-L-C-S. The anguish of a realization that she might be real, he might know who she is, but he's no clue where she exists other than the Window to his imagination. The visualized progression via the lustful warmth of Merlot and the comforting warmth of coffee, Vitis Coffea. Her very Image powerful in its inspiration. A beauty, inside and out, from visage to Décolletage.
She doesn't exist. A tactile sensation created only by imagination. But he takes her hand anyway, And They Dance... as long as the moment can and will allow. There is a fear, perhaps a realization, that nothing of her lingering impression will be left After Paris. An awareness that despite a desire as strong as the Sun, he will only bear reluctant witness to a Star Fall. A quiet mind, engulfing a quiet heart, where the only sound heard is a softly-played Requiem for a Satellite of Zeus. It's a sad song, but one that encourages him to take a hard look in the Mirror.
She doesn't exist. It doesn't matter; her idea is all he needs. He takes solace in the realization that An Absence of Proof is not a proof of absence. She doesn't exist. She's all he wants for Christmas.
Showing posts with label lust. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lust. Show all posts
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Resignation
It is during Deborah's going away party that she realizes the young office attendant knows. She thought her 45 years of life gave her the advantage in effectively hiding her lascivious thoughts from him - Nathan being barely 23 - but it is clear that they did not. She's suddenly worried that the glass of champagne in her hand is one too many. Then again, he's the one who brought it to her.
Nathan's been Deborah's receptionist and assistant for the past 18 months, fresh from college and eager to start a corporate career. Her last assistant, Samantha, left to take a middle-management position at a competing firm. She had Samantha for nearly six years and, admittedly, was afraid to even look for new assistant. Hell, her retirement from the company was only a year-and-a-half away, and consideration was given to finishing out her time without an assistant at all. Her boss, Wayne, an over-eager divorcee who flirts a little too heavily with her, would hear none of it. In fact, Wayne's the one who hired Nathan as some weird gesture of eye candy that Wayne was hoping would result in some office sex.
He was wrong about the office sex. Deborah couldn't imagine sleeping with Wayne were he the last man on Earth. But he was right about the eye candy. Nathan was gorgeous, and not just in that youthful way. Everything from his cheekbones to his skin tone, his hair style to his lean musculature. Everything was just the way she likes it. The way she's liked it since she was a teenager.
And now he's sitting on an office table decorated with "Congrats, Debbie!" Handing her champagne. Leaning into her. Whispering rumors of other employees. Casting surreptitious glances down her cleavage. He's a little drunk, she knows - Hell, so is she - but seems to be genuinely enjoying himself. She should be grateful for the attention, but it's scaring her. Why can't he go mingle with the young admin girls?
She must have asked aloud.
"Because, Deborah," he states, his voice not absent a slur, "it's your fucking party."
He notices her champagne glass, not-quite-but-almost empty, and runs off to fetch another. Out of reflex she stares at his ass walking away. She's going to miss that ass. He's smiling as he returns with two full bottles. She's going to miss that smile.
"Your eyes give you away, you know." He moves in a little too close when he refills her glass.
"Pardon?" She holds still as he pours.
"They're very wanting." His free hand brushes her between her thighs, thumb to mons pubis and fingers between cheek. She spills champagne. But that's not what he felt was wet.
She gets up, pushing him aside. "Nathan..." She rushes to the restroom
"Shit, I'm sorry. Kinda clumsy." It's as rehearsed a statement as there's ever been.
***
Deborah was always one to get to know her co-workers. She once worked at a firm where no one spent any time together outside of the office - or even seemed to want to - and it drove her crazy. She could certainly understand any reluctance to go out on weekends or enjoy private dinners - they all had lives to live, after all - but none even bothered to share lunch. It was an alien concept to her and one she actively avoided when she acquired her job here. She wasn't sure anyone at her previous employer even knew she previously married - or even had three daughters - but everyone at her current employer certainly did. She could barely remember the last time she had lunch without at least one co-worker present.
Their relationship started innocuously enough.
"Nathan, would you like to join us for lunch?" Deborah was already on her way out, two ladies from the marketing department standing behind her. She was, admittedly, hoping that he would decline.
"No, thanks. I'm just gonna grab something from the kitchen."
She's not sure why, since she was happy with the response, but something about him - probably the smile - elicited a push. "I'm buying. And I'll probably never offer that again." She can't quite remember, but she has the feeling that she winked at him.
"In that case. Sold."
The two chatted at work and quite often. But in the open air of an alfresco cafe, he was in a different element. Not only did he charm her two marketing friends, she found herself completely taken in by the stories he regaled. He wasn't even 22 years old and she felt envious of his life. A traveler by whim and whimsy, finishing his degree primarily via exchange programs and semesters-at-sea, even a two-year stint in the Coast Guard that began four days after his 17th birthday and ended only due to a sudden onset of asthma that mysteriously disappeared upon his discharge. An awareness that the world was his in that subjective, liberating way that the world could be anybody's. Though she took little, if any, credit for it, she had seen that attitude blossom in one of her daughters. It instilled in her an overwhelming sense of pride. Here, it instilled in her an overwhelming sense of something else.
Within weeks she found herself inviting only Nathan out to lunch. She was remarkably diplomatic and conniving, and none of her previous lunch mates paid too much heed to their exclusion. Occasional gossip quickly dispelled by an incredulous expression or a purposefully-designed joke. She loved hearing about his trials and tribulations on the social front. He took everything to heart but nothing too seriously and this demeanor elicited her openness in return. Within months she was convinced he knew more about her than anyone else. Even her children.
One day, while watching him file paperwork and flirt with an admin girl, he caught her staring at him and smiled at her. She barely noticed, lost in daydream as she was. It wasn't until he started waving slowly that she snapped out of it.
***
She's splashed her face with water. Peed. Splashed her face with more water. Washed her hands. Twice. Three times. Peed again. It's only a matter of time before someone starts wondering where she's gone to. Or what she's doing in the bathroom. There's a temptation to do something else, but she's a lady and will not consider it. Still...
She's terrified of leaving this room.
It's a fear that keeps her there until long after her party is over. And long after everyone's gone home.
***
Almost everyone.
***
She opens the door slowly, unsure of when the custodians show up. Satisfied that she's alone in the building, she makes her way in the relative darkness to her office. It's unlocked, thankfully, since her keys are in her purse, which is in its usual place in her desk. Her cellphone has nearly three dozen missed calls and over a dozen new voicemails, a dozen text messages. She finds it sweet that everyone was looking for her. Or pretending to, at least.
The light knocking startles her.
"Where were you hiding?" Nathan's smiling his usual smile. He seems to have sobered up, but his collared shirt is half-way unbuttoned, his hair's a mess, and he seems to have misplaced his shoes.
"Oh, you know. Parties bore me a little, especially when they're mine." Deborah tries very hard to force a natural smile. A friendly gesture that she hopes will very quickly lead to a gratuitous goodbye.
He approaches her slowly and she suddenly regrets making eye contact. He'd mentioned her eyes earlier. Were they really that obvious? He doesn't even ask a question and she finds herself confessing.
"Okay, Nathan, okay. I admit I've ogled you a bit. Fantasized about you some. I'm a single woman who hasn't had sex in 20 years. It's what I do. I'm sorry."
"Don't say you're sorry. I'm not stupid. I've noticed," he says, removing his shirt. "You're fabulous. I want to do this."
Ordinarily, such a statement would render her speechless, but it has the opposite effect. Particularly as he finishes removing the rest of his clothing. "You don't. You're going to regret it. I have daughters your age, for fuck's sake. Let's go home. Oh... you don't want to do this."
"Shut up." His tone is commandingly stern, yet, somehow, pleadingly gentle. "Take your pants off."
She's shaking uncontrollably, but manages to obey. In the dark he hears her belt jingle to the floor and he fumbles for her. He slips himself into her and her inhibitions disappear.
Nathan's been Deborah's receptionist and assistant for the past 18 months, fresh from college and eager to start a corporate career. Her last assistant, Samantha, left to take a middle-management position at a competing firm. She had Samantha for nearly six years and, admittedly, was afraid to even look for new assistant. Hell, her retirement from the company was only a year-and-a-half away, and consideration was given to finishing out her time without an assistant at all. Her boss, Wayne, an over-eager divorcee who flirts a little too heavily with her, would hear none of it. In fact, Wayne's the one who hired Nathan as some weird gesture of eye candy that Wayne was hoping would result in some office sex.
He was wrong about the office sex. Deborah couldn't imagine sleeping with Wayne were he the last man on Earth. But he was right about the eye candy. Nathan was gorgeous, and not just in that youthful way. Everything from his cheekbones to his skin tone, his hair style to his lean musculature. Everything was just the way she likes it. The way she's liked it since she was a teenager.
And now he's sitting on an office table decorated with "Congrats, Debbie!" Handing her champagne. Leaning into her. Whispering rumors of other employees. Casting surreptitious glances down her cleavage. He's a little drunk, she knows - Hell, so is she - but seems to be genuinely enjoying himself. She should be grateful for the attention, but it's scaring her. Why can't he go mingle with the young admin girls?
She must have asked aloud.
"Because, Deborah," he states, his voice not absent a slur, "it's your fucking party."
He notices her champagne glass, not-quite-but-almost empty, and runs off to fetch another. Out of reflex she stares at his ass walking away. She's going to miss that ass. He's smiling as he returns with two full bottles. She's going to miss that smile.
"Your eyes give you away, you know." He moves in a little too close when he refills her glass.
"Pardon?" She holds still as he pours.
"They're very wanting." His free hand brushes her between her thighs, thumb to mons pubis and fingers between cheek. She spills champagne. But that's not what he felt was wet.
She gets up, pushing him aside. "Nathan..." She rushes to the restroom
"Shit, I'm sorry. Kinda clumsy." It's as rehearsed a statement as there's ever been.
***
Deborah was always one to get to know her co-workers. She once worked at a firm where no one spent any time together outside of the office - or even seemed to want to - and it drove her crazy. She could certainly understand any reluctance to go out on weekends or enjoy private dinners - they all had lives to live, after all - but none even bothered to share lunch. It was an alien concept to her and one she actively avoided when she acquired her job here. She wasn't sure anyone at her previous employer even knew she previously married - or even had three daughters - but everyone at her current employer certainly did. She could barely remember the last time she had lunch without at least one co-worker present.
Their relationship started innocuously enough.
"Nathan, would you like to join us for lunch?" Deborah was already on her way out, two ladies from the marketing department standing behind her. She was, admittedly, hoping that he would decline.
"No, thanks. I'm just gonna grab something from the kitchen."
She's not sure why, since she was happy with the response, but something about him - probably the smile - elicited a push. "I'm buying. And I'll probably never offer that again." She can't quite remember, but she has the feeling that she winked at him.
"In that case. Sold."
The two chatted at work and quite often. But in the open air of an alfresco cafe, he was in a different element. Not only did he charm her two marketing friends, she found herself completely taken in by the stories he regaled. He wasn't even 22 years old and she felt envious of his life. A traveler by whim and whimsy, finishing his degree primarily via exchange programs and semesters-at-sea, even a two-year stint in the Coast Guard that began four days after his 17th birthday and ended only due to a sudden onset of asthma that mysteriously disappeared upon his discharge. An awareness that the world was his in that subjective, liberating way that the world could be anybody's. Though she took little, if any, credit for it, she had seen that attitude blossom in one of her daughters. It instilled in her an overwhelming sense of pride. Here, it instilled in her an overwhelming sense of something else.
Within weeks she found herself inviting only Nathan out to lunch. She was remarkably diplomatic and conniving, and none of her previous lunch mates paid too much heed to their exclusion. Occasional gossip quickly dispelled by an incredulous expression or a purposefully-designed joke. She loved hearing about his trials and tribulations on the social front. He took everything to heart but nothing too seriously and this demeanor elicited her openness in return. Within months she was convinced he knew more about her than anyone else. Even her children.
One day, while watching him file paperwork and flirt with an admin girl, he caught her staring at him and smiled at her. She barely noticed, lost in daydream as she was. It wasn't until he started waving slowly that she snapped out of it.
***
She's splashed her face with water. Peed. Splashed her face with more water. Washed her hands. Twice. Three times. Peed again. It's only a matter of time before someone starts wondering where she's gone to. Or what she's doing in the bathroom. There's a temptation to do something else, but she's a lady and will not consider it. Still...
She's terrified of leaving this room.
It's a fear that keeps her there until long after her party is over. And long after everyone's gone home.
***
Almost everyone.
***
She opens the door slowly, unsure of when the custodians show up. Satisfied that she's alone in the building, she makes her way in the relative darkness to her office. It's unlocked, thankfully, since her keys are in her purse, which is in its usual place in her desk. Her cellphone has nearly three dozen missed calls and over a dozen new voicemails, a dozen text messages. She finds it sweet that everyone was looking for her. Or pretending to, at least.
The light knocking startles her.
"Where were you hiding?" Nathan's smiling his usual smile. He seems to have sobered up, but his collared shirt is half-way unbuttoned, his hair's a mess, and he seems to have misplaced his shoes.
"Oh, you know. Parties bore me a little, especially when they're mine." Deborah tries very hard to force a natural smile. A friendly gesture that she hopes will very quickly lead to a gratuitous goodbye.
He approaches her slowly and she suddenly regrets making eye contact. He'd mentioned her eyes earlier. Were they really that obvious? He doesn't even ask a question and she finds herself confessing.
"Okay, Nathan, okay. I admit I've ogled you a bit. Fantasized about you some. I'm a single woman who hasn't had sex in 20 years. It's what I do. I'm sorry."
"Don't say you're sorry. I'm not stupid. I've noticed," he says, removing his shirt. "You're fabulous. I want to do this."
Ordinarily, such a statement would render her speechless, but it has the opposite effect. Particularly as he finishes removing the rest of his clothing. "You don't. You're going to regret it. I have daughters your age, for fuck's sake. Let's go home. Oh... you don't want to do this."
"Shut up." His tone is commandingly stern, yet, somehow, pleadingly gentle. "Take your pants off."
She's shaking uncontrollably, but manages to obey. In the dark he hears her belt jingle to the floor and he fumbles for her. He slips himself into her and her inhibitions disappear.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
An Absence of Proof
"Who decides, huh? Who? This is bullshit."
"I don't know, man. Calm the fuck down."
"Fuck you."
No one's really sure what he's talking about, but everyone knows what he's talking about. Life, death. Maybe a woman. It doesn't really matter what the words are applied to. His mind is moving at the speed of light and every risk he's ever taken is being reevaluated whether he knows it or not. The creation of logic falls to the destruction of hope and back again. A never ending cycle of cognitive thought mixed with the fallacy that the heart can feel.
***
"What's he on about?"
"I dunno. I think someone died."
"Who?"
Some might think it sad that emotional reaction is based on the answer to that question. But he thinks it's natural. He neither cares if someone he's never met dies, nor if somewhere he's never been suffers from a natural disaster. Most of his friends call him apathetic, but a few know he carries a weight they could never bear. The weight of nothing.
***
"You know, if you keep trying to climb higher, it's just gonna hurt more."
"I once read that there's only one thing worse than being alone."
"What was that?"
"Settling."
The song claims that it's small world, after all. But it isn't. Even with dreams of sailing among the stars, no man will ever leave footprints across the entirety of Earth. No woman will ever walk the whole of her home. No one will ever even see it all. It is not knowledge held that destroys the myth that ignorance is bliss. It is the knowledge that there is always something to learn. Fear is not an evil. Fear is what makes something worth doing. "I am not afraid" is the motto of the complacent.
***
"It's a girl. Definitely a girl."
"Figures. Hopeless-ass-romantic."
"Nah. Too hopeful, I think."
"Semantics."
"A word makes all the difference in the world, brother."
Everything is interpreted the way the interpreter wants it. Propaganda is the only true force in human evolution; human civilization. It may or not be an abject lie, but it's a subjective truth and an objective motivation. Laws chip away at pieces of theories left by the wayside, leaving not evidence of fact, but raw impressions of an existence that needs no definition. His life is meant for service. Not because of fate; only because that's what he wants. An absence of self-concern, oft-mistaken for an irresponsible and irreverent attitude, is actually proof that he simply wants to take care of another. And be taken care of.
***
"Don't be an asshole. Be realistic."
"I'm a dick, not an asshole."
"What's the fucking difference?"
"The smell."
Someone once said that if you stand still long enough, the world will come to you. If this is true, the only hope for travelers searching for companions is if they're traveling in opposite directions. It is a chase that never ends and never should. If this is a lie, then a whole lot of people are wasting their time smelling the roses. Yet time is a commodity only valuable as long as it can be remembered. As such, it's worthless, for we will all forget eventually. Memory is the only reason you have something to lose. Imagination is the only reason you have something to gain.
***
"She's out there."
"You're fooling yourself."
"Nah."
"You're setting a standard that no one's ever gonna meet."
"I don't set the standards. People I meet do."
The heart can't feel. The mind does it all. The weight of nothing is overwhelming, lightened only when an emotion can be carried. Fear can lead to love, for a true love will intimidate, if only to test resiliency. He wants her. And he wants her to smile. It is an imagined memory that, one day, he hopes, will come true.
"I don't know, man. Calm the fuck down."
"Fuck you."
No one's really sure what he's talking about, but everyone knows what he's talking about. Life, death. Maybe a woman. It doesn't really matter what the words are applied to. His mind is moving at the speed of light and every risk he's ever taken is being reevaluated whether he knows it or not. The creation of logic falls to the destruction of hope and back again. A never ending cycle of cognitive thought mixed with the fallacy that the heart can feel.
***
"What's he on about?"
"I dunno. I think someone died."
"Who?"
Some might think it sad that emotional reaction is based on the answer to that question. But he thinks it's natural. He neither cares if someone he's never met dies, nor if somewhere he's never been suffers from a natural disaster. Most of his friends call him apathetic, but a few know he carries a weight they could never bear. The weight of nothing.
***
"You know, if you keep trying to climb higher, it's just gonna hurt more."
"I once read that there's only one thing worse than being alone."
"What was that?"
"Settling."
The song claims that it's small world, after all. But it isn't. Even with dreams of sailing among the stars, no man will ever leave footprints across the entirety of Earth. No woman will ever walk the whole of her home. No one will ever even see it all. It is not knowledge held that destroys the myth that ignorance is bliss. It is the knowledge that there is always something to learn. Fear is not an evil. Fear is what makes something worth doing. "I am not afraid" is the motto of the complacent.
***
"It's a girl. Definitely a girl."
"Figures. Hopeless-ass-romantic."
"Nah. Too hopeful, I think."
"Semantics."
"A word makes all the difference in the world, brother."
Everything is interpreted the way the interpreter wants it. Propaganda is the only true force in human evolution; human civilization. It may or not be an abject lie, but it's a subjective truth and an objective motivation. Laws chip away at pieces of theories left by the wayside, leaving not evidence of fact, but raw impressions of an existence that needs no definition. His life is meant for service. Not because of fate; only because that's what he wants. An absence of self-concern, oft-mistaken for an irresponsible and irreverent attitude, is actually proof that he simply wants to take care of another. And be taken care of.
***
"Don't be an asshole. Be realistic."
"I'm a dick, not an asshole."
"What's the fucking difference?"
"The smell."
Someone once said that if you stand still long enough, the world will come to you. If this is true, the only hope for travelers searching for companions is if they're traveling in opposite directions. It is a chase that never ends and never should. If this is a lie, then a whole lot of people are wasting their time smelling the roses. Yet time is a commodity only valuable as long as it can be remembered. As such, it's worthless, for we will all forget eventually. Memory is the only reason you have something to lose. Imagination is the only reason you have something to gain.
***
"She's out there."
"You're fooling yourself."
"Nah."
"You're setting a standard that no one's ever gonna meet."
"I don't set the standards. People I meet do."
The heart can't feel. The mind does it all. The weight of nothing is overwhelming, lightened only when an emotion can be carried. Fear can lead to love, for a true love will intimidate, if only to test resiliency. He wants her. And he wants her to smile. It is an imagined memory that, one day, he hopes, will come true.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Mirror
In a far off place, on the other side of my mind, there's another side of my mind in a far off place. Through the mirror of sleep I can see it. Paradise. And Hell. Shattered imagery that will not stick to memory, instead bonding to strange laughter or beads of sweat noticed when eyes suddenly open. It is no threat in the daylight. Under the blanket of solar shadow, however, it is as terrifying and inviting as anything in waking life. Fear and love worth never waking from. False memories worth waking for. In a far off place. On the other side of the mirror.
Words spoken, unspoken, and understood. Language is not the barrier. Only impression. Adjective describes nothing, yet everything's in the detail. Adverb paces nothing, yet everything's in the movement. A revolution of revelation, whispered and warred in strange worlds that exist only in the chemical reactions of one. The serpent is terrifying, but it does not understand why. Though it may bite me, it is also the rope with which I pull myself from the cliff. An adversary with clawed gloves provides an outstretched hand. The blood here isn't real. But I won't learn that until I wake. When I'm on the other side of the mirror.
The closet is full of secret and skeleton. In a closeted world, there is no shame. The mirror is full of false light. It's no wonder that the suns here are not real. Water cannot be navigated except by flight. The mirror shatters when the fingers of the sea drop me. It is an abject failure that I've not yet learned to defeat Icarus. Or learned from his mistake. There is no need to, for this world is mine. Sanity defined by which side of the mirror I learned this from.
She's here somewhere. Always, hidden in the desires of shadows, constantly shifting with the comfort of a pillow I can't actually feel. I've heard her sing. Heard her whisper. Smelled her a thousand times. Touched her. Made love to her. I try to remind myself I've never seen her. But she's real. Radiated or reflected. She's real. The reason for the sweat on the sheets, for the blanket on the floor, for the loneliness when pupil adjusts to encroaching light. On the other side of a mirror whose waves reflect nothing but the setting sun. I need to figure out how to watch the sunrise of a far off place.
Words spoken, unspoken, and understood. Language is not the barrier. Only impression. Adjective describes nothing, yet everything's in the detail. Adverb paces nothing, yet everything's in the movement. A revolution of revelation, whispered and warred in strange worlds that exist only in the chemical reactions of one. The serpent is terrifying, but it does not understand why. Though it may bite me, it is also the rope with which I pull myself from the cliff. An adversary with clawed gloves provides an outstretched hand. The blood here isn't real. But I won't learn that until I wake. When I'm on the other side of the mirror.
The closet is full of secret and skeleton. In a closeted world, there is no shame. The mirror is full of false light. It's no wonder that the suns here are not real. Water cannot be navigated except by flight. The mirror shatters when the fingers of the sea drop me. It is an abject failure that I've not yet learned to defeat Icarus. Or learned from his mistake. There is no need to, for this world is mine. Sanity defined by which side of the mirror I learned this from.
She's here somewhere. Always, hidden in the desires of shadows, constantly shifting with the comfort of a pillow I can't actually feel. I've heard her sing. Heard her whisper. Smelled her a thousand times. Touched her. Made love to her. I try to remind myself I've never seen her. But she's real. Radiated or reflected. She's real. The reason for the sweat on the sheets, for the blanket on the floor, for the loneliness when pupil adjusts to encroaching light. On the other side of a mirror whose waves reflect nothing but the setting sun. I need to figure out how to watch the sunrise of a far off place.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Killing Softly, Part III
*Continued from Killing Softly, Part II
Sliding glass door shatters and a puff of down and cotton springs from a puncture through the bottom corner of the mattress. The lovers react instinctively without breaking their intercourse, though labia stretch uncomfortably for an instant. His right hand reaches for his pistol on the left night stand. She reaches for her pistol on the right.
***
They've been partners for three years now and have even spoken of marriage. Such a thing is unlikely, however, since their line of work would make the arrangement more dangerous for the both of them. But Jonathan Ferrari and Gemma Bianci are very much in love. As much now as they were three years ago.
Donnie had been right. The cliché fit. Violently lonely souls found peace in the violent hearts of each other. As she sleeps, silhouette reflecting blue-white glow from a filtered moon, he traces a finger from her nude thigh to her neck. She moans softly, dreamlike, and turns over onto her stomach. He gently kisses her between shoulder blades, then shifts her hair to the side and kisses again on the back of her neck.
He can't sleep and very much wants to make love, but she is exhausted from a harder-than-expected assignment and he takes care not to wake her. Instead, he places his head just below his pillow - his nose mere millimeters from her left shoulder - and inhales the scent of fading perfume interrupted by a hint of sweat.
There was a time in life in which he would not even allow himself to imagine such moments. He still doesn't really believe he's living this one.
***
Shards of glass begin their musical percussion on hardwood floor as ballistic zips permeate the room from two sides. Wet tongues maintain their taste of each other as silenced flashes from the ends of pistols return fire. With simultaneous quiver there is an acknowledgment - cognitive and carnal - that they are already dead.
***
Work had been difficult lately. A young enforcer began a power-play for Donnie's position and the body count kept getting larger. So tight was security that Donnie felt the need to bring in his assassins as body guards. He held off calling in Jonathan and Gemma - they were his best, after all - until he decided he had no other option. Their reputations, internationally renown among organized crime and law enforcement circles, helped to stem some of the attempts on Donnie's life, but not all of them.
Reactive defense quickly became aggressive offense and, though their protests remained silent, Jonathan and Gemma soon found themselves soldiers in a war happening in the shadows of New York and New Jersey. For a time, Jonathan and Gemma would continue to operate together - often accompanied by several others - but constant betrayals and shifting of loyalties forced Donnie to send them on different assignments at the same time. Neither minded to the point of refusal, having been solo operators before, but circumstance led to a drastic drop in the amount of time Jonathan and Gemma could spend in each other's company.
Donnie was aware of this, for it eventually reflected quite evidently in the moods of each, but there was nothing he could yet do about it, save cut them loose from their responsibilities. He wasn't willing to take that chance.
***
A 5.56 mm round tears through the flesh of breast and passes near the heart of the other. Crimson from exit wound sprays lover. The assailants move loudly and .45 caliber bullets blaze atmospheric paths towards any sound created by boot and foot. The legs of man and woman straddle each other, continuing to foster oscillating motions as adrenaline adds to lust and regret of dying reminds of love.
***
She massages his shoulders, careful to avoid the black and purple of the fist-sized bruise near the top-right of his ribcage. He loves her hands and their professional technique. And, in his case, their loving technique. The movements of her fingers and thumbs threatens both to induce sleep and elevate libido. As he adjusts his hips to make room for the encroaching discomfort, she gently rolls him over. His eyes are closed but he's smiling. Fingertips glide from chest to stomach; from stomach to inner thighs, then slightly higher. She removes her shirt in a smooth, almost choreographed transition, and she grabs him, drawing him into her in a seamless glide.
His eyes open and palms extend, just barely allowing erect nipples to brush them while her body begins its slow bounce. Watching her for a few moments - this, one of his favorite views - he slides his hands to her hips, palpating her buttocks and finding her ticklish spot on the rear-right of her pelvis. She squeezes him in playful response and he lets go, finding the urge to gasp overpowering.
***
Another bullet cracks scapula, pushing bodies downward for an instant, posture righting itself with an orgasm of life that will end in seconds. The kiss fades, replaced by embrace, neck to neck. Blood rushes from eyes in an attempt to keep bodies and lust alive. With their fading sight, attacking silhouettes are effectively engaged, ensuring that Orpheus and Eurydice will have plenty of fresh company in Hell.
***
Donnie enters the bedroom, unsure of how he'll react. The Handler was right. A massacre was expected and a massacre is what was delivered. Outside of the room are four dead. Inside are six more. Four enemy. Jonathan. Gemma. Were this anyone else, Donnie would take heart in the 8-2 score, but here the thought doesn't dare cross his mind. Even he's failed to realize how much he loved Jonathan and Gemma. They had saved him as much as he'd saved them.
Donnie runs out into the hallway, trying to catch his breath and fight back tears he didn't think existed. He slumps into a chair and pulls out a cigar and his cellphone. His fingers fumble the lighter and it falls to the floor. He's shaking too badly and knows he won't be able to retrieve it.
The cigar thrown across the room, Donnie finds that neither can he dial the number. Holding down voice-dial, he commands, "Call Handler."
A few rings.
"Send in the boys. I can't do it." Donnie hangs up.
He closes his eyes, a numbing sadness forcing a sense of sleep he's not had since he was too young to remember. In his mind, he snaps a photograph of Jonathan and Gemma posed in their final moment of life.
Lovers until the end. Covered in blood. Eyes open, pistols in hand, bodies locked in coital embrace.
Sliding glass door shatters and a puff of down and cotton springs from a puncture through the bottom corner of the mattress. The lovers react instinctively without breaking their intercourse, though labia stretch uncomfortably for an instant. His right hand reaches for his pistol on the left night stand. She reaches for her pistol on the right.
***
They've been partners for three years now and have even spoken of marriage. Such a thing is unlikely, however, since their line of work would make the arrangement more dangerous for the both of them. But Jonathan Ferrari and Gemma Bianci are very much in love. As much now as they were three years ago.
Donnie had been right. The cliché fit. Violently lonely souls found peace in the violent hearts of each other. As she sleeps, silhouette reflecting blue-white glow from a filtered moon, he traces a finger from her nude thigh to her neck. She moans softly, dreamlike, and turns over onto her stomach. He gently kisses her between shoulder blades, then shifts her hair to the side and kisses again on the back of her neck.
He can't sleep and very much wants to make love, but she is exhausted from a harder-than-expected assignment and he takes care not to wake her. Instead, he places his head just below his pillow - his nose mere millimeters from her left shoulder - and inhales the scent of fading perfume interrupted by a hint of sweat.
There was a time in life in which he would not even allow himself to imagine such moments. He still doesn't really believe he's living this one.
***
Shards of glass begin their musical percussion on hardwood floor as ballistic zips permeate the room from two sides. Wet tongues maintain their taste of each other as silenced flashes from the ends of pistols return fire. With simultaneous quiver there is an acknowledgment - cognitive and carnal - that they are already dead.
***
Work had been difficult lately. A young enforcer began a power-play for Donnie's position and the body count kept getting larger. So tight was security that Donnie felt the need to bring in his assassins as body guards. He held off calling in Jonathan and Gemma - they were his best, after all - until he decided he had no other option. Their reputations, internationally renown among organized crime and law enforcement circles, helped to stem some of the attempts on Donnie's life, but not all of them.
Reactive defense quickly became aggressive offense and, though their protests remained silent, Jonathan and Gemma soon found themselves soldiers in a war happening in the shadows of New York and New Jersey. For a time, Jonathan and Gemma would continue to operate together - often accompanied by several others - but constant betrayals and shifting of loyalties forced Donnie to send them on different assignments at the same time. Neither minded to the point of refusal, having been solo operators before, but circumstance led to a drastic drop in the amount of time Jonathan and Gemma could spend in each other's company.
Donnie was aware of this, for it eventually reflected quite evidently in the moods of each, but there was nothing he could yet do about it, save cut them loose from their responsibilities. He wasn't willing to take that chance.
***
A 5.56 mm round tears through the flesh of breast and passes near the heart of the other. Crimson from exit wound sprays lover. The assailants move loudly and .45 caliber bullets blaze atmospheric paths towards any sound created by boot and foot. The legs of man and woman straddle each other, continuing to foster oscillating motions as adrenaline adds to lust and regret of dying reminds of love.
***
She massages his shoulders, careful to avoid the black and purple of the fist-sized bruise near the top-right of his ribcage. He loves her hands and their professional technique. And, in his case, their loving technique. The movements of her fingers and thumbs threatens both to induce sleep and elevate libido. As he adjusts his hips to make room for the encroaching discomfort, she gently rolls him over. His eyes are closed but he's smiling. Fingertips glide from chest to stomach; from stomach to inner thighs, then slightly higher. She removes her shirt in a smooth, almost choreographed transition, and she grabs him, drawing him into her in a seamless glide.
His eyes open and palms extend, just barely allowing erect nipples to brush them while her body begins its slow bounce. Watching her for a few moments - this, one of his favorite views - he slides his hands to her hips, palpating her buttocks and finding her ticklish spot on the rear-right of her pelvis. She squeezes him in playful response and he lets go, finding the urge to gasp overpowering.
***
Another bullet cracks scapula, pushing bodies downward for an instant, posture righting itself with an orgasm of life that will end in seconds. The kiss fades, replaced by embrace, neck to neck. Blood rushes from eyes in an attempt to keep bodies and lust alive. With their fading sight, attacking silhouettes are effectively engaged, ensuring that Orpheus and Eurydice will have plenty of fresh company in Hell.
***
Donnie enters the bedroom, unsure of how he'll react. The Handler was right. A massacre was expected and a massacre is what was delivered. Outside of the room are four dead. Inside are six more. Four enemy. Jonathan. Gemma. Were this anyone else, Donnie would take heart in the 8-2 score, but here the thought doesn't dare cross his mind. Even he's failed to realize how much he loved Jonathan and Gemma. They had saved him as much as he'd saved them.
Donnie runs out into the hallway, trying to catch his breath and fight back tears he didn't think existed. He slumps into a chair and pulls out a cigar and his cellphone. His fingers fumble the lighter and it falls to the floor. He's shaking too badly and knows he won't be able to retrieve it.
The cigar thrown across the room, Donnie finds that neither can he dial the number. Holding down voice-dial, he commands, "Call Handler."
A few rings.
"Send in the boys. I can't do it." Donnie hangs up.
He closes his eyes, a numbing sadness forcing a sense of sleep he's not had since he was too young to remember. In his mind, he snaps a photograph of Jonathan and Gemma posed in their final moment of life.
Lovers until the end. Covered in blood. Eyes open, pistols in hand, bodies locked in coital embrace.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Killing Softly, Part II
*Continued from Killing Softly, Part I
"You need a woman," Donnie said, with that half-smile that made it hard to tell if he were joking. Donnie wanted to tell Gemma that she needed a man, but knew Gemma would react more than poorly to the suggestion. So Donnie figured to tell the man he had in mind for her instead.
Donnie knew people. And he knew that Jonathan and Gemma, despite having not yet met, were lost souls who could find themselves in each other. Donnie couldn't help it; the thought made him laugh. Still, there was no doubt in his mind that the cliché fit.
"I don't have time for a woman, Donnie." Jonathan's answer was blunt; emotionless. The sentiment behind the response was clear, even if the words were somewhat of a lie. When he wasn't working, Jonathan did little save read books and watch movies. In essence, he had all the time in the world. That it was painfully obvious Jonathan was depressingly lonely was what sprung Donnie into doing something about it.
Donnie knew people. And the subtle and devious machinations of his demented crime-boss of a mind would, Donnie was sure, eventually come to fruition. He thought briefly of some law of attraction or magnetism he once read about when he was a kid in high school. He didn't understand it then - doesn't understand it to this day - but he figured the principle had to work.
"You need a woman."
***
Gemma Bianci is intrigued. Jonathan's laughter means he's either sick and twisted like damn near every other man she's met, or that he gets it. It's against her nature, but she's leaning towards the latter. She thought she recognized something different when they met. Something in his posture, in his eyes. Part of her even knows that he thought the same of her.
"So, what about you?" she asks, uncharacteristically wanting to keep the silence broken, though she still does not look directly at him.
"How'd I get into killing?" Jonathan asks in return, flicking what's left of his cigarette out the car window.
"Yeah." She almost smiles. Almost.
He studies her for a moment. He knows he's older than she is, but she looks like she might be the older one. Rough lines from a rough life. He briefly wonders what gene determines how a person's appearance is aged by stress.
"It's kind of a boring story, compared to yours."
"Not sure there's such a thing as a boring how-I-got-into-killing story." Gemma senses Jonathan readying to recount his tale and she pulls another cigarette out of his pack. He stares at it, surprised at her intuition, and licks his bottom lip in burgeoning curiosity - he finds himself wanting to really know her. Noticing his hesitation, she places the cigarette in her mouth and lights it. Taking a drag - a false one, Jonathan guesses - she hands it to him. He can taste her lipstick.
***
The first time Jonathan ever killed somebody, he was only 16. It was a clear-cut case of self-defense... some gang-banging hoodies tried to rip off Jonathan's skateboard and when Jonathan put up a fight, one of the thugs whipped out a knife. In what Jonathan himself calls the quickest reaction of his life, he swung the skateboard into the knife, deflecting the weapon into the assailant's own ribcage. The knife pierced the heart. In shock, Jonathan couldn't do anything but stand there and watch him die.
When the cops showed up, they quickly realized what happened - plenty of witnesses confirmed Jonathan's story - and went easy on him. Though Jonathan was still taken into custody, the arresting officer put on the cuffs as loose as they could get without falling off. Jonathan spent less than two hours in the holding cell.
He, too, wound up with an abusive partner. Amanda Pratt. She had a scolding scream that still causes him nightmares.
Ostensibly abused herself by a high-school boyfriend, she became a self-professed defender of the abused. Amanda was overweight for most of her life and after leaving the abusive boyfriend she resolved to get into shape. Starting with Tae Bo, she engaged in a variety of physical exercise. Rock climbing, Kempo, scuba. There was no activity she wasn't willing to try. She never quite lost all of her weight - though much of it was replaced by muscle - but that didn't stop most men from finding her attractive, particularly Jonathan. Less for her appearance and more for her confidence, he was enamored.
A few months into their relationship, he was slowly exposed to her dogmatic view that men were essentially scum that needed to be cleansed and controlled. He also learned the details that constituted the abuse she endured. Speaking to her sister, he discovered that her "abuse" consisted of a boyfriend slapping her once - by all accounts, the only time this boyfriend ever struck Amanda - at a high school dance. Without excusing the slap, Jonathan realized that Amanda's outspoken defiance was misguided and due more to a public embarrassment, rather than any true sense of abuse.
Finding Jonathan mysteriously against her - so she perceived - she began a quick spiral into abusing him. At first the abuse was emotional, no physical contact at all. But one day she went too far and, in the heat of an argument, grabbed him by the throat. He broke. Feral instinct took over. An elbow to the neck and a violent yank of a pony tail - accompanied literally by a bone-chilling snap - resulted in Amanda's death.
Frightened - both by his own action and of its potential punishment - he fled overseas. He eventually joined the French Foreign Legion - at the time they still fostered changes of identity - and soon became a decorated soldier. Then a mercenary operating out of South Africa. Then a hit-man out of Austria. It was there he first worked for Donnie.
***
"So your name's not really Jonathan Pino Ferrari?" She takes notice that he's let the now-extinguished cigarette dry to his lower lip. It still has her lipstick on it.
"Nope." He spits the cigarette butt out. Point of fact is that he's not even Italian.
"Pino?"
"I love horses."
"And fast cars, I'm guessing." She, too, loves horses, often finding long rides her only form of solace.
He laughs. "Yeah, but I prefer Jaguars."
She understand it's a joke, but doesn't quite find it funny. She's not a car person. Nevertheless, she accepts that he definitely intrigues her. It doesn't hurt that she finds him attractive.
"Huh," she says, finally looking at him. "That was kinda boring."
This time, she joins him in his laughter.
*Continued in Killing Softly, Part III
"You need a woman," Donnie said, with that half-smile that made it hard to tell if he were joking. Donnie wanted to tell Gemma that she needed a man, but knew Gemma would react more than poorly to the suggestion. So Donnie figured to tell the man he had in mind for her instead.
Donnie knew people. And he knew that Jonathan and Gemma, despite having not yet met, were lost souls who could find themselves in each other. Donnie couldn't help it; the thought made him laugh. Still, there was no doubt in his mind that the cliché fit.
"I don't have time for a woman, Donnie." Jonathan's answer was blunt; emotionless. The sentiment behind the response was clear, even if the words were somewhat of a lie. When he wasn't working, Jonathan did little save read books and watch movies. In essence, he had all the time in the world. That it was painfully obvious Jonathan was depressingly lonely was what sprung Donnie into doing something about it.
Donnie knew people. And the subtle and devious machinations of his demented crime-boss of a mind would, Donnie was sure, eventually come to fruition. He thought briefly of some law of attraction or magnetism he once read about when he was a kid in high school. He didn't understand it then - doesn't understand it to this day - but he figured the principle had to work.
"You need a woman."
***
Gemma Bianci is intrigued. Jonathan's laughter means he's either sick and twisted like damn near every other man she's met, or that he gets it. It's against her nature, but she's leaning towards the latter. She thought she recognized something different when they met. Something in his posture, in his eyes. Part of her even knows that he thought the same of her.
"So, what about you?" she asks, uncharacteristically wanting to keep the silence broken, though she still does not look directly at him.
"How'd I get into killing?" Jonathan asks in return, flicking what's left of his cigarette out the car window.
"Yeah." She almost smiles. Almost.
He studies her for a moment. He knows he's older than she is, but she looks like she might be the older one. Rough lines from a rough life. He briefly wonders what gene determines how a person's appearance is aged by stress.
"It's kind of a boring story, compared to yours."
"Not sure there's such a thing as a boring how-I-got-into-killing story." Gemma senses Jonathan readying to recount his tale and she pulls another cigarette out of his pack. He stares at it, surprised at her intuition, and licks his bottom lip in burgeoning curiosity - he finds himself wanting to really know her. Noticing his hesitation, she places the cigarette in her mouth and lights it. Taking a drag - a false one, Jonathan guesses - she hands it to him. He can taste her lipstick.
***
The first time Jonathan ever killed somebody, he was only 16. It was a clear-cut case of self-defense... some gang-banging hoodies tried to rip off Jonathan's skateboard and when Jonathan put up a fight, one of the thugs whipped out a knife. In what Jonathan himself calls the quickest reaction of his life, he swung the skateboard into the knife, deflecting the weapon into the assailant's own ribcage. The knife pierced the heart. In shock, Jonathan couldn't do anything but stand there and watch him die.
When the cops showed up, they quickly realized what happened - plenty of witnesses confirmed Jonathan's story - and went easy on him. Though Jonathan was still taken into custody, the arresting officer put on the cuffs as loose as they could get without falling off. Jonathan spent less than two hours in the holding cell.
He, too, wound up with an abusive partner. Amanda Pratt. She had a scolding scream that still causes him nightmares.
Ostensibly abused herself by a high-school boyfriend, she became a self-professed defender of the abused. Amanda was overweight for most of her life and after leaving the abusive boyfriend she resolved to get into shape. Starting with Tae Bo, she engaged in a variety of physical exercise. Rock climbing, Kempo, scuba. There was no activity she wasn't willing to try. She never quite lost all of her weight - though much of it was replaced by muscle - but that didn't stop most men from finding her attractive, particularly Jonathan. Less for her appearance and more for her confidence, he was enamored.
A few months into their relationship, he was slowly exposed to her dogmatic view that men were essentially scum that needed to be cleansed and controlled. He also learned the details that constituted the abuse she endured. Speaking to her sister, he discovered that her "abuse" consisted of a boyfriend slapping her once - by all accounts, the only time this boyfriend ever struck Amanda - at a high school dance. Without excusing the slap, Jonathan realized that Amanda's outspoken defiance was misguided and due more to a public embarrassment, rather than any true sense of abuse.
Finding Jonathan mysteriously against her - so she perceived - she began a quick spiral into abusing him. At first the abuse was emotional, no physical contact at all. But one day she went too far and, in the heat of an argument, grabbed him by the throat. He broke. Feral instinct took over. An elbow to the neck and a violent yank of a pony tail - accompanied literally by a bone-chilling snap - resulted in Amanda's death.
Frightened - both by his own action and of its potential punishment - he fled overseas. He eventually joined the French Foreign Legion - at the time they still fostered changes of identity - and soon became a decorated soldier. Then a mercenary operating out of South Africa. Then a hit-man out of Austria. It was there he first worked for Donnie.
***
"So your name's not really Jonathan Pino Ferrari?" She takes notice that he's let the now-extinguished cigarette dry to his lower lip. It still has her lipstick on it.
"Nope." He spits the cigarette butt out. Point of fact is that he's not even Italian.
"Pino?"
"I love horses."
"And fast cars, I'm guessing." She, too, loves horses, often finding long rides her only form of solace.
He laughs. "Yeah, but I prefer Jaguars."
She understand it's a joke, but doesn't quite find it funny. She's not a car person. Nevertheless, she accepts that he definitely intrigues her. It doesn't hurt that she finds him attractive.
"Huh," she says, finally looking at him. "That was kinda boring."
This time, she joins him in his laughter.
*Continued in Killing Softly, Part III
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Killing Softly, Part I
The Handler eyes his boss carefully. Initially, he thought that the request might have been some sort of twisted joke - the boss certainly has a reputation for those - but the sadness so clearly painted on Donnie Adduci's face dispelled the notion.
"You sure you want to do this yourself?" the Handler asks. "We have people already on their way."
Donnie sighs. He does not like to be second-guessed. Under normal circumstances, he'd probably put out his Dominican cigar on the Handler's arm. These are not normal circumstances.
"Yes, I'm sure. I should do it."
"You haven't cleaned up in a while." The Handler adds more respect to his tone, noticing too-late Donnie's subtle ire with the previous question.
Donnie probably should let the others take care of the mess, but this is far more personal than any other mess Donnie can recall at the moment. Far more personal than any of his people could possibly realize.
"Doesn't matter. They were mine. It's my fault."
"What do you mean?" There's alarm in the Handler's tone now. Something's definitely off. Whatever it is, Donnie's not singing.
"Just get me a car, will you?"
***
Jonathan Pino Ferrari eyes the woman sitting next to him. He feels insulted that Donnie gave him a partner - outside of his first three assignments, Jonathan's always worked alone - and even more so that the partner is female. There was a moment that he thought it was a joke. When that proved not to be the case, he surmised that he was expected to train her. The woman - Gemma Bianci - is, however, already a reputable killer. Jonathan couldn't fathom why they were put together. As he sits next to her in a brand new black Chevrolet Impala, he still can't.
He also can't shake the fact that she's... strangely magnetic. Ever the gentleman, he quickly resigns himself to the situation and, finally seeing opportunity, tries to break the ice.
"How'd you get into killing?" It seems a natural thing to ask, though its awkwardness makes even Jonathan cringe as he hears his voice speak it.
There's a moment of silence, barely broken by the almost inaudible separation of wet lips. "That's kind of a personal question, isn't it?" She doesn't turn to look at him.
"It was meant to be." Jonathan pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket - both killers are dressed in Armani - and tears the plastic wrap, placing it in the cup holder in the driver's door. Before he can tap a cigarette out for himself, she fingernails one out and hands it to him. It is not a gesture of friendship, merely the result of being trained to seduce marks. Jonathan recognizes the professionalism behind it and allows a smirk.
"You want the long version or the short version?" she asks.
"I want the however-much-time-we-have version," he replies, lighting the smoke.
***
Gemma was once the girlfriend of Gabriel Adduci, the son of deceased mob boss Alfonso Adduci, Donnie's brother. She was 19, just starting her junior year at Seton Hall. Gabriel was 22, a fresh baccalaureate, though there were questions as to whether or not he truly earned his degree in economics. She didn't care. Gabriel had the look of a movie star and the money, to boot. He bought her expensive things and all of her friends were jealous. Things were great.
Until she graduated and Gabriel asked her to move in with him.
She'd heard the stories of mob kids. Spoiled brats, usually, and not fans of not getting their way. She wanted to apply to graduate school. Gabriel objected. The arguments came to a head and, finally, she threatened to leave him. But instead of having asserted her independence, she provoked Gabriel's wrath and he struck her.
"You leave me when I say you leave me," Gabriel informed her.
For the next two years she dealt with the abuse, afraid that Gabriel would follow-through with his myriad of threats.
One day, he'd come home drunk and wanted to fuck. At first she was going to allow him to masturbate with her body - as she referred to it, for the love was long gone - but it was clear that Gabriel had recently fucked another woman... maybe more than one, and Gemma refused. Not more than a second passed from her screaming, "Not a chance in Hell," to the butt of his Colt Super .38 connecting with her jaw. The blow drew blood and spun her around onto the bed. He spread her legs apart and pulled her towards him, intent on ripping her sweats and panties off. But he made one mistake. He placed the .38 on the corner of the bed.
Not thinking - indeed, not even sure how to fire a pistol - she grabbed it, turned over kicking, shoved it into his belly and pulled the trigger. Gabriel, mainly from shock, backhanded her across the face. While trying to cover her head from further blows, she instinctively pulled the trigger again, blowing out her left ear drum. She couldn't hear a thing.
But then, there was nothing to hear. The second bullet entered Gabriel's nose, traveled into his brain, deflected off the top of his skull, and exited his head from just above the left ear. The sight froze her. She couldn't even bring herself to resist when some enforcers showed up to apprehend her.
It was then she finally met Donnie Adduci. Everyone around the situation thought Donnie would kill her right then and there, but Donnie instead got her medical attention. He told her she was going to be all right.
Donnie, in fact, hated Gabriel. Hated the thought of Gabriel advancing through the ranks. Gabriel was an out of control punk in his eyes. In everyone's, really, but he was Alfonso's kid and, as such, had to be looked after. But Donnie didn't care. Both Gabriel and his brother, Michael, would eventually cause trouble for the Family. Donnie was convinced of this.
So he made Gemma a deal. Kill Michael, too, and all would be forgotten. She didn't think she could at first, but Michael resembled Gabriel in appearance - quite closely - and that made it easier. That was the day after her 24th birthday. Eight years ago. She's been killing ever since. And, outside of her assignments, hasn't allowed a man to so much as hold her hand.
***
"Damn," is all Jonathan can bring himself to say.
"Yeah, Lifetime movie stuff, isn't it?"
Jonathan laughs. She turns her head further away from him and he sees her purse her lips, then frown, in her vague reflection in the car window. He can tell there's still a lot of femininity inside of Gemma, and he's glad for it. Nobody should have to shut off their identity completely. Psychological survival or not. He should know.
*Continued in Killing Softly, Part II
"You sure you want to do this yourself?" the Handler asks. "We have people already on their way."
Donnie sighs. He does not like to be second-guessed. Under normal circumstances, he'd probably put out his Dominican cigar on the Handler's arm. These are not normal circumstances.
"Yes, I'm sure. I should do it."
"You haven't cleaned up in a while." The Handler adds more respect to his tone, noticing too-late Donnie's subtle ire with the previous question.
Donnie probably should let the others take care of the mess, but this is far more personal than any other mess Donnie can recall at the moment. Far more personal than any of his people could possibly realize.
"Doesn't matter. They were mine. It's my fault."
"What do you mean?" There's alarm in the Handler's tone now. Something's definitely off. Whatever it is, Donnie's not singing.
"Just get me a car, will you?"
***
Jonathan Pino Ferrari eyes the woman sitting next to him. He feels insulted that Donnie gave him a partner - outside of his first three assignments, Jonathan's always worked alone - and even more so that the partner is female. There was a moment that he thought it was a joke. When that proved not to be the case, he surmised that he was expected to train her. The woman - Gemma Bianci - is, however, already a reputable killer. Jonathan couldn't fathom why they were put together. As he sits next to her in a brand new black Chevrolet Impala, he still can't.
He also can't shake the fact that she's... strangely magnetic. Ever the gentleman, he quickly resigns himself to the situation and, finally seeing opportunity, tries to break the ice.
"How'd you get into killing?" It seems a natural thing to ask, though its awkwardness makes even Jonathan cringe as he hears his voice speak it.
There's a moment of silence, barely broken by the almost inaudible separation of wet lips. "That's kind of a personal question, isn't it?" She doesn't turn to look at him.
"It was meant to be." Jonathan pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket - both killers are dressed in Armani - and tears the plastic wrap, placing it in the cup holder in the driver's door. Before he can tap a cigarette out for himself, she fingernails one out and hands it to him. It is not a gesture of friendship, merely the result of being trained to seduce marks. Jonathan recognizes the professionalism behind it and allows a smirk.
"You want the long version or the short version?" she asks.
"I want the however-much-time-we-have version," he replies, lighting the smoke.
***
Gemma was once the girlfriend of Gabriel Adduci, the son of deceased mob boss Alfonso Adduci, Donnie's brother. She was 19, just starting her junior year at Seton Hall. Gabriel was 22, a fresh baccalaureate, though there were questions as to whether or not he truly earned his degree in economics. She didn't care. Gabriel had the look of a movie star and the money, to boot. He bought her expensive things and all of her friends were jealous. Things were great.
Until she graduated and Gabriel asked her to move in with him.
She'd heard the stories of mob kids. Spoiled brats, usually, and not fans of not getting their way. She wanted to apply to graduate school. Gabriel objected. The arguments came to a head and, finally, she threatened to leave him. But instead of having asserted her independence, she provoked Gabriel's wrath and he struck her.
"You leave me when I say you leave me," Gabriel informed her.
For the next two years she dealt with the abuse, afraid that Gabriel would follow-through with his myriad of threats.
One day, he'd come home drunk and wanted to fuck. At first she was going to allow him to masturbate with her body - as she referred to it, for the love was long gone - but it was clear that Gabriel had recently fucked another woman... maybe more than one, and Gemma refused. Not more than a second passed from her screaming, "Not a chance in Hell," to the butt of his Colt Super .38 connecting with her jaw. The blow drew blood and spun her around onto the bed. He spread her legs apart and pulled her towards him, intent on ripping her sweats and panties off. But he made one mistake. He placed the .38 on the corner of the bed.
Not thinking - indeed, not even sure how to fire a pistol - she grabbed it, turned over kicking, shoved it into his belly and pulled the trigger. Gabriel, mainly from shock, backhanded her across the face. While trying to cover her head from further blows, she instinctively pulled the trigger again, blowing out her left ear drum. She couldn't hear a thing.
But then, there was nothing to hear. The second bullet entered Gabriel's nose, traveled into his brain, deflected off the top of his skull, and exited his head from just above the left ear. The sight froze her. She couldn't even bring herself to resist when some enforcers showed up to apprehend her.
It was then she finally met Donnie Adduci. Everyone around the situation thought Donnie would kill her right then and there, but Donnie instead got her medical attention. He told her she was going to be all right.
Donnie, in fact, hated Gabriel. Hated the thought of Gabriel advancing through the ranks. Gabriel was an out of control punk in his eyes. In everyone's, really, but he was Alfonso's kid and, as such, had to be looked after. But Donnie didn't care. Both Gabriel and his brother, Michael, would eventually cause trouble for the Family. Donnie was convinced of this.
So he made Gemma a deal. Kill Michael, too, and all would be forgotten. She didn't think she could at first, but Michael resembled Gabriel in appearance - quite closely - and that made it easier. That was the day after her 24th birthday. Eight years ago. She's been killing ever since. And, outside of her assignments, hasn't allowed a man to so much as hold her hand.
***
"Damn," is all Jonathan can bring himself to say.
"Yeah, Lifetime movie stuff, isn't it?"
Jonathan laughs. She turns her head further away from him and he sees her purse her lips, then frown, in her vague reflection in the car window. He can tell there's still a lot of femininity inside of Gemma, and he's glad for it. Nobody should have to shut off their identity completely. Psychological survival or not. He should know.
*Continued in Killing Softly, Part II
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
After Paris
He's from too young a generation to know who Bogart or Bergman are, but he knows the saying. It was, after all, once spoken to him. It is with this memory that he foolishly leads his squad into the ruins of the former capital of France. Paris fell nearly three months ago and, by all accounts, was annihilated. The intelligence reports - human, signal, and image - all agree that La Ville-Lumière is permanently and completely dark.
One light, however, does remain. And the image of a pendant and chain hanging from the neck of a woman lustfully and lovingly hovering above proves far too resilient to extinguish without irrefutable proof.
Master Sergeant Ocean is not a stupid man and his mission has been carefully planned and disguised as a legitimate reconnaissance op. Some of his promotions have been attributed to being the last man standing, so to speak, but an equal number have been granted due to competence and candor. Outside of this one indiscretion, he maintains a reputation for bluntness that those in offices far outranking his - indeed, offices of men and women he's likely to never meet - often give him extra rope with which to tie loose ends... or hang himself. There is a pang of guilt in taking advantage of this reputation for such a personal matter, but ever since the Coalition tore through the coastal European plains - stopped only by a desperate Alliance defense of the Pyrenees - he's been unable to sleep.
She is the last woman he's loved. His favorite. Given his hopeful hopeless romanticism, without her - or the idea of her - he fears his uselessness to the world at large. It is an arrogance to think the universe cares about one small heart wanting another, but such is the nature of men whose pulls of triggers have altered political landscapes.
"Two klick spread. Everything might look dead, chaps, but that doesn't make it so."
Three green lights appear on his VISOR display, signifying acknowledgment from elements Charlie Echo 2, 3, and 4.
"Verify active camo batteries above point-seven-five. We're going to need them," Ocean relays to the response of three more greens.
"Dissipators at full." And still three more. Parts of Paris are still burning, even after this much time, but Ocean is unsure if the fires are hot enough to cover his team's heat signatures. Bad enough that he could only acquire Talos suits for this recon - the Achilles were far more efficient at moving undetected - but many of their vents had been battle-damaged during whatever previous engagements they were a part of.
"Flares at ready." Only two green lights this time. Ocean is a millisecond away from inquiring of the third when a vocal response is received.
"We've done this before, Captain Obvious."
Ordinarily Ocean would berate such a blatant disregard for transmission protocol, but the response comes from Ioannis, his best soldier and one whose tactical reputation is Ocean's equal. Not only that, but the other two members of the recon come from Ioannis' unit, and their loyalty is clearly to Ioannis and not Ocean. As if driving the point home, the third green appears on Ocean's display.
Its proves too much.
Ocean deactivates his disippators and drops his active camo, utilizing all-too-hot and all-too-bright jump jets to close the distance between himself and Ioannis. He imagines three masked "uh ohs" as the two kilometer separation disappears in a matter of seconds.
Not wanting to exacerbate things, Ioannis' Talos maintains its position and he waits for Ocean to jack-in the direct line.
"This is not the time, Ioannis."
"You're not yourself," Ioannis replies, tone respectful of rank, if not of man. "We're heading to Aulnay-sous-Bois, which has no reconnaissance value whatsoever. Care to let me in on what the fuck we're really doing out here?"
Ocean sighs. His irritation subsides, giving way to a crescendo of guilt. There's no point in keeping it a secret at this point.
***
To Ioannis' credit, he says nothing to the other Talos-operators. Even when Ocean disengages from his Talos' cockpit with a DNA scanner and enters the ruins of what was once an upper-middle-class residence. Instead, Ioannis issues a simple order: "Triangle out, center-point here. Max limit."
The three other Talos' jump away, giving Ocean much-desired privacy under the auspices of a defensive formation. He waits until the others disappear from view, staring through a foyer window that somehow remained intact. When he's finally alone with his ghost, he begins the search.
Finding her body doesn't take as long as Ocean feared. Burnt and rotting, the smell is almost too much to bear. She is unrecognizable in her current state and Ocean cuts off a tissue sample, placing it into the scanner. Holding his breath for the few seconds it takes to analyze, the news is bad... and entirely expected.
What is unexpected is the second body. A man's. Possibly a brother, he hopes, but just as practicality dictates that Ocean returns to his Talos, curiosity results in another analyzed tissue sample. And another.
***
Ioannis catches up to Ocean back at FOB Azores and notes Ocean's dour expression.
"You find what you were looking for, Master Sergeant?"
"I did," Ocean mutters behind a slow nod.
Something's wrong, and Ioannis knows it. "I'll handle the debrief."
"Thank you."
***
Ocean stands on the banks of Lagoa das Sete Cidades, the charred necklace he found in the rubble of Paris in his hand. He's crying, an activity rare in his lifetime, and falls to his knees.
"We'll always have Paris." A whisper in memory; a scream in imagination.
Fear of being seen forces Ocean back to his feet. He takes a longing glance at the necklace before throwing it into the volcanic lake.
Conscience resolved, Ocean gives thanks that Paris is gone and heads back to the base.
In the months ahead, Ocean formally takes command of Ioannis' unit. It is the beginning of a beautiful friendship and what is recorded in combat reviews as the most effective fighting unit of the war.
One light, however, does remain. And the image of a pendant and chain hanging from the neck of a woman lustfully and lovingly hovering above proves far too resilient to extinguish without irrefutable proof.
Master Sergeant Ocean is not a stupid man and his mission has been carefully planned and disguised as a legitimate reconnaissance op. Some of his promotions have been attributed to being the last man standing, so to speak, but an equal number have been granted due to competence and candor. Outside of this one indiscretion, he maintains a reputation for bluntness that those in offices far outranking his - indeed, offices of men and women he's likely to never meet - often give him extra rope with which to tie loose ends... or hang himself. There is a pang of guilt in taking advantage of this reputation for such a personal matter, but ever since the Coalition tore through the coastal European plains - stopped only by a desperate Alliance defense of the Pyrenees - he's been unable to sleep.
She is the last woman he's loved. His favorite. Given his hopeful hopeless romanticism, without her - or the idea of her - he fears his uselessness to the world at large. It is an arrogance to think the universe cares about one small heart wanting another, but such is the nature of men whose pulls of triggers have altered political landscapes.
"Two klick spread. Everything might look dead, chaps, but that doesn't make it so."
Three green lights appear on his VISOR display, signifying acknowledgment from elements Charlie Echo 2, 3, and 4.
"Verify active camo batteries above point-seven-five. We're going to need them," Ocean relays to the response of three more greens.
"Dissipators at full." And still three more. Parts of Paris are still burning, even after this much time, but Ocean is unsure if the fires are hot enough to cover his team's heat signatures. Bad enough that he could only acquire Talos suits for this recon - the Achilles were far more efficient at moving undetected - but many of their vents had been battle-damaged during whatever previous engagements they were a part of.
"Flares at ready." Only two green lights this time. Ocean is a millisecond away from inquiring of the third when a vocal response is received.
"We've done this before, Captain Obvious."
Ordinarily Ocean would berate such a blatant disregard for transmission protocol, but the response comes from Ioannis, his best soldier and one whose tactical reputation is Ocean's equal. Not only that, but the other two members of the recon come from Ioannis' unit, and their loyalty is clearly to Ioannis and not Ocean. As if driving the point home, the third green appears on Ocean's display.
Its proves too much.
Ocean deactivates his disippators and drops his active camo, utilizing all-too-hot and all-too-bright jump jets to close the distance between himself and Ioannis. He imagines three masked "uh ohs" as the two kilometer separation disappears in a matter of seconds.
Not wanting to exacerbate things, Ioannis' Talos maintains its position and he waits for Ocean to jack-in the direct line.
"This is not the time, Ioannis."
"You're not yourself," Ioannis replies, tone respectful of rank, if not of man. "We're heading to Aulnay-sous-Bois, which has no reconnaissance value whatsoever. Care to let me in on what the fuck we're really doing out here?"
Ocean sighs. His irritation subsides, giving way to a crescendo of guilt. There's no point in keeping it a secret at this point.
***
To Ioannis' credit, he says nothing to the other Talos-operators. Even when Ocean disengages from his Talos' cockpit with a DNA scanner and enters the ruins of what was once an upper-middle-class residence. Instead, Ioannis issues a simple order: "Triangle out, center-point here. Max limit."
The three other Talos' jump away, giving Ocean much-desired privacy under the auspices of a defensive formation. He waits until the others disappear from view, staring through a foyer window that somehow remained intact. When he's finally alone with his ghost, he begins the search.
Finding her body doesn't take as long as Ocean feared. Burnt and rotting, the smell is almost too much to bear. She is unrecognizable in her current state and Ocean cuts off a tissue sample, placing it into the scanner. Holding his breath for the few seconds it takes to analyze, the news is bad... and entirely expected.
What is unexpected is the second body. A man's. Possibly a brother, he hopes, but just as practicality dictates that Ocean returns to his Talos, curiosity results in another analyzed tissue sample. And another.
***
Ioannis catches up to Ocean back at FOB Azores and notes Ocean's dour expression.
"You find what you were looking for, Master Sergeant?"
"I did," Ocean mutters behind a slow nod.
Something's wrong, and Ioannis knows it. "I'll handle the debrief."
"Thank you."
***
Ocean stands on the banks of Lagoa das Sete Cidades, the charred necklace he found in the rubble of Paris in his hand. He's crying, an activity rare in his lifetime, and falls to his knees.
"We'll always have Paris." A whisper in memory; a scream in imagination.
Fear of being seen forces Ocean back to his feet. He takes a longing glance at the necklace before throwing it into the volcanic lake.
Conscience resolved, Ocean gives thanks that Paris is gone and heads back to the base.
In the months ahead, Ocean formally takes command of Ioannis' unit. It is the beginning of a beautiful friendship and what is recorded in combat reviews as the most effective fighting unit of the war.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
And They Dance...
"I need to get the fuck out of here." He's a wanderer by nature. A wistful heart who knows the world passes everyone by without so much as a by your leave.
"Where you gonna go?" His roommate doesn't really care, but sympathy behind a cigarette is easy enough to offer.
"Don't give a shit. Anywhere." Smoke and ash dissipate beneath a ceiling fan as if showing the way.
***
"I just need to go somewhere." She's a wanderer by design. A wondering heart who knows the world is out there to be seen.
"Aw, honey. I understand, but I wish you wouldn't." Her mother often claims to want her daughter to leave the roost, but the two very much resemble inseparable friends. It's going to break her heart.
"I have to." The crack is almost audible.
***
It is at different times they stand on the same cliff, taking in the wondrous natural beauty of waterfall and canopied jungle below. Thoughts of jumping off may initially alarm, but they are thoughts accompanied by impressions of rope and carabiner. Exhilaration is a necessity, for neither feels alive without it.
It is at different times they swim in the same waters of the same beach, cautious of the invisible barrage from the sun and the currents that could sweep them away. Reckless abandon, for them, is anything but reckless. Few are as aware as either of their easily forgotten roles in the world. There is no reason to conform to anything that, at its core, is little more than chaos. And it is both how and why they understand.
***
"Where are you from?" the Dominican asks. She's beautiful and her English is quite natural in tone. Hell, she's probably from Miami.
He answers with a flippant gesture of hands, the implication of everywhere and nowhere at all.
"What does that mean?"
"Whatever it needs to."
Though the response intrigues her, she can tell he's already bored.
***
"Where are you from?" the Frenchman asks. He's traditionally handsome and picturesque. But she can tell he's looking for a one-nighter.
She answers with not only the city of her origin, but of the suburb. Home, for her, is very specific.
"I used to travel there a bit," he lies, quite obviously.
She asks him a question anyone who's ever seen her hometown would know the answer to. She can't help but laugh when he pretends he's late for an engagement and walks off in embarrassment.
***
He loves an ill-advised adventure down alleys locals warn not to take. Far from suicidal, there is something about this dance that makes the world worth surviving for. To appreciate beauty, one must know ugly. And the knife-wielding thugs are rightfully ugly. Should he come out on top, there will be no guilt in adding to their ugliness.
When it's over his palm is sliced open, though he retains full range of motion with his hand and fingers. A good sign. Neither of the thugs are seriously injured. The one running away tends a fracture mid-forearm while the other stares in disbelief at the sight of his own blade sticking out from his thigh.
Being lost in chaos tastes as good as he remembers.
***
She adores letting it all go in the middle of a dance floor. Self-consciousness dissipates amid the tempo of music and the twirl of hair under black light. Controlled motion depicting out-of-control emotion bridges the gap between being there and knowing where she needs to be. A beautiful stillness is to be had in beautiful movement.
When the music stops she finally notices the eyes of men temporarily in love with her form. It is a motivation she doesn't need, but fully appreciates. Her heartbeat slows down as she gathers her belongings and disappears into the night. It's almost time to return home.
Finding meaning in chaos is as calming as it's ever been.
***
It is in different places they realize they're together, with friends they'll never meet sifting their own ways through the detritus of loneliness. The world, solitary as it is, never stops. And neither will they.
So they dance.
"Where you gonna go?" His roommate doesn't really care, but sympathy behind a cigarette is easy enough to offer.
"Don't give a shit. Anywhere." Smoke and ash dissipate beneath a ceiling fan as if showing the way.
***
"I just need to go somewhere." She's a wanderer by design. A wondering heart who knows the world is out there to be seen.
"Aw, honey. I understand, but I wish you wouldn't." Her mother often claims to want her daughter to leave the roost, but the two very much resemble inseparable friends. It's going to break her heart.
"I have to." The crack is almost audible.
***
It is at different times they stand on the same cliff, taking in the wondrous natural beauty of waterfall and canopied jungle below. Thoughts of jumping off may initially alarm, but they are thoughts accompanied by impressions of rope and carabiner. Exhilaration is a necessity, for neither feels alive without it.
It is at different times they swim in the same waters of the same beach, cautious of the invisible barrage from the sun and the currents that could sweep them away. Reckless abandon, for them, is anything but reckless. Few are as aware as either of their easily forgotten roles in the world. There is no reason to conform to anything that, at its core, is little more than chaos. And it is both how and why they understand.
***
"Where are you from?" the Dominican asks. She's beautiful and her English is quite natural in tone. Hell, she's probably from Miami.
He answers with a flippant gesture of hands, the implication of everywhere and nowhere at all.
"What does that mean?"
"Whatever it needs to."
Though the response intrigues her, she can tell he's already bored.
***
"Where are you from?" the Frenchman asks. He's traditionally handsome and picturesque. But she can tell he's looking for a one-nighter.
She answers with not only the city of her origin, but of the suburb. Home, for her, is very specific.
"I used to travel there a bit," he lies, quite obviously.
She asks him a question anyone who's ever seen her hometown would know the answer to. She can't help but laugh when he pretends he's late for an engagement and walks off in embarrassment.
***
He loves an ill-advised adventure down alleys locals warn not to take. Far from suicidal, there is something about this dance that makes the world worth surviving for. To appreciate beauty, one must know ugly. And the knife-wielding thugs are rightfully ugly. Should he come out on top, there will be no guilt in adding to their ugliness.
When it's over his palm is sliced open, though he retains full range of motion with his hand and fingers. A good sign. Neither of the thugs are seriously injured. The one running away tends a fracture mid-forearm while the other stares in disbelief at the sight of his own blade sticking out from his thigh.
Being lost in chaos tastes as good as he remembers.
***
She adores letting it all go in the middle of a dance floor. Self-consciousness dissipates amid the tempo of music and the twirl of hair under black light. Controlled motion depicting out-of-control emotion bridges the gap between being there and knowing where she needs to be. A beautiful stillness is to be had in beautiful movement.
When the music stops she finally notices the eyes of men temporarily in love with her form. It is a motivation she doesn't need, but fully appreciates. Her heartbeat slows down as she gathers her belongings and disappears into the night. It's almost time to return home.
Finding meaning in chaos is as calming as it's ever been.
***
It is in different places they realize they're together, with friends they'll never meet sifting their own ways through the detritus of loneliness. The world, solitary as it is, never stops. And neither will they.
So they dance.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Décolletage
The impression's been made, even from at this distance. She's beautiful. Already, with eyes closed, the tone and accent of her voice match with the impression. Even from at this distance.
A sleeveless cowl-necked top exposes shoulders slouched just a little, sadness revealed on the horizon of her torso. Sun-embraced skin glistens as a foreign easterly attempts to reassure her with cooled ocean air and a whisper of encouragement. She does not look in his direction, instead shifting away. He enjoys the brief image of windswept strands of brunette semaphore.
Loneliness has settled within her, but the desire to be held did not relent, escaping from her imagination in the form of surreptitious tears. Salt-water slides below sunglassed eyes, emphasizing the lines of a turned neck screaming to be tasted. She continues to avoid him, instead gazing to the ground beneath her own feet. An upturn in the wind creates a silhouette of winged coiffure.
Fears of rejection nearly overwhelm her, threatening to dim such a luminescent smile. The sea breeze pauses and wings gently fold into a cleft so lasciviously captivating, sensation reminding that the world is a wonder to behold with head held high. She makes eye contact, but for an instant, and sees the desire in a stranger's eyes. Her own hand caresses her breast, sweeping her hair behind her, a moment reminiscent of angel bearing tressed halo.
In spite of the agony her in visage, the anguish in her heart, there is a part of her always smiling. As smooth and reflective as the beauty who wears it. She knows she's beautiful. And the confidence affords her the grace to walk on by.
Décolletage...
A sleeveless cowl-necked top exposes shoulders slouched just a little, sadness revealed on the horizon of her torso. Sun-embraced skin glistens as a foreign easterly attempts to reassure her with cooled ocean air and a whisper of encouragement. She does not look in his direction, instead shifting away. He enjoys the brief image of windswept strands of brunette semaphore.
Loneliness has settled within her, but the desire to be held did not relent, escaping from her imagination in the form of surreptitious tears. Salt-water slides below sunglassed eyes, emphasizing the lines of a turned neck screaming to be tasted. She continues to avoid him, instead gazing to the ground beneath her own feet. An upturn in the wind creates a silhouette of winged coiffure.
Fears of rejection nearly overwhelm her, threatening to dim such a luminescent smile. The sea breeze pauses and wings gently fold into a cleft so lasciviously captivating, sensation reminding that the world is a wonder to behold with head held high. She makes eye contact, but for an instant, and sees the desire in a stranger's eyes. Her own hand caresses her breast, sweeping her hair behind her, a moment reminiscent of angel bearing tressed halo.
In spite of the agony her in visage, the anguish in her heart, there is a part of her always smiling. As smooth and reflective as the beauty who wears it. She knows she's beautiful. And the confidence affords her the grace to walk on by.
Décolletage...
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Image
"Have you seen what she looks like?"
"Oh, shit yeah. She's gorgeous."
"Is she cool?"
"No clue. Never talked to her."
How strange, then, is an image that can not only turn a head, but turn a mind? One sensory input affecting the whole of perception and of perspective. Yes, it can be touched, but the tactile sensation will be no different than that of any other photograph. There is nothing to look forward to but the realization of yet another absence from a life already wounded by absence. That the introduction was never made makes not the farewell any easier.
"What the Hell is the point of that?"
"I don't know. Just needed it in my life."
"A photograph?"
"No. An idea."
How wonderful, then, is an image that can not only capture a moment gone, but inspire moments to come? Eyes downward, dark brown hair tucked behind an ear, and a smile from a brief experience that will never be shared again. An artificial memory burns into natural memory, interpreted differently for each viewer. To one, she's gorgeous. To another, she's a daughter. To yet another, she's unwanted competition. To all, she's just a photograph. Nothing more than color and light frozen in a world in which all living things eventually go blind.
"An idea of what?"
"Of something worth writing about."
"Can't you just make shit up?"
"It's better knowing it's really out there."
How depressing, then, is an image of something that will never been seen with real eyes? Distance between reveals the world to be a large place, though the image itself claims otherwise. Through the eyes of the camera, a thousand words can be any thousand words. Perfection is as subjective as description, no two describe a picture the same way, and no one describes a picture the same way twice. Maybe a lover yesterday and an enemy tomorrow, or vice versa. Whether idea or impression, she is always beautiful.
"But you don't know. She's just an idea. She could be a bitch."
"She's not. She's a sweetheart."
"How can you tell that from a picture?"
"Because I wrote her that way."
"Oh, shit yeah. She's gorgeous."
"Is she cool?"
"No clue. Never talked to her."
How strange, then, is an image that can not only turn a head, but turn a mind? One sensory input affecting the whole of perception and of perspective. Yes, it can be touched, but the tactile sensation will be no different than that of any other photograph. There is nothing to look forward to but the realization of yet another absence from a life already wounded by absence. That the introduction was never made makes not the farewell any easier.
"What the Hell is the point of that?"
"I don't know. Just needed it in my life."
"A photograph?"
"No. An idea."
How wonderful, then, is an image that can not only capture a moment gone, but inspire moments to come? Eyes downward, dark brown hair tucked behind an ear, and a smile from a brief experience that will never be shared again. An artificial memory burns into natural memory, interpreted differently for each viewer. To one, she's gorgeous. To another, she's a daughter. To yet another, she's unwanted competition. To all, she's just a photograph. Nothing more than color and light frozen in a world in which all living things eventually go blind.
"An idea of what?"
"Of something worth writing about."
"Can't you just make shit up?"
"It's better knowing it's really out there."
How depressing, then, is an image of something that will never been seen with real eyes? Distance between reveals the world to be a large place, though the image itself claims otherwise. Through the eyes of the camera, a thousand words can be any thousand words. Perfection is as subjective as description, no two describe a picture the same way, and no one describes a picture the same way twice. Maybe a lover yesterday and an enemy tomorrow, or vice versa. Whether idea or impression, she is always beautiful.
"But you don't know. She's just an idea. She could be a bitch."
"She's not. She's a sweetheart."
"How can you tell that from a picture?"
"Because I wrote her that way."
Thursday, July 1, 2010
The Nostalgia
*Readers (who actually read) and have good memories might remember some of these lines from an earlier piece (Calm; Stay). Much of what I knock out starts in multiple forms and I wanted to see how different I could make something that previously turned into something else.
She's mostly a silhouette as she enters the bookstore, blinding sunlight behind her. That he can barely see her, knowing she can clearly see him, makes it difficult to maintain any pretense of nonchalance. He wants to wait for her to come to him, but anxiety overcomes and he moves to meet her halfway. His steps are soft, confident, deliberate in their attempt to give nothing away.
A heartbeat tries desperately to chase the presence of a first impression long forgotten, but the embrace happens before it can remember. A dying memory brought to life by something new: touch. And the subtle scent of skin moistened from a now-welcomed humidity. There's the taste of coffee, too, but only because he's been drinking some.
The embrace breaks and there's hope that she notices only a nervous smile. He's afraid she can hear the nervous heartbeats overwhelming a mind moving too slowly to comprehend, but she says nothing as she returns the smile. Never was an instant more exhilarating.
***
Arms touch in the movie theater and each pretends not to notice. There will be no kiss in this facade of a reunion between long-lost friends, but she makes sure to leave enough residual lipstick on the straw of his drink she casually takes a sip from.
***
Alcohol overtakes conversation in a near-abandoned Cuban restaurant. He wanted her years ago and is in awe of the serendipity that has reunited them 14 years after and 2500 miles away from where they first met. Until now, the only time they've met.
It seems, though, that the reunion is to be short-lived. Life journeys, started in the same place, are traveling opposite directions and passing at a random point in time. He is leaving for another place and another life. She is leaving for another place and the life he had just left. He, unhappy where he's been, longs to return somewhere he can smile about. She, unhappy where she's been, has never found that place. Hints of sadness reveal themselves in the admission of being lost in a sense of nostalgia. Longings for paths not taken.
"And I'm the nostalgia," she says. It is a statement as perceptive as it is sad.
He doesn't believe it matters, though, for everyone carries their past wherever they may go. But he'll not see her much longer, of that he's certain. This time, the divergence of their paths is to be permanent. She's to be so much more than nostalgia.
She's mostly a silhouette as she enters the bookstore, blinding sunlight behind her. That he can barely see her, knowing she can clearly see him, makes it difficult to maintain any pretense of nonchalance. He wants to wait for her to come to him, but anxiety overcomes and he moves to meet her halfway. His steps are soft, confident, deliberate in their attempt to give nothing away.
A heartbeat tries desperately to chase the presence of a first impression long forgotten, but the embrace happens before it can remember. A dying memory brought to life by something new: touch. And the subtle scent of skin moistened from a now-welcomed humidity. There's the taste of coffee, too, but only because he's been drinking some.
The embrace breaks and there's hope that she notices only a nervous smile. He's afraid she can hear the nervous heartbeats overwhelming a mind moving too slowly to comprehend, but she says nothing as she returns the smile. Never was an instant more exhilarating.
***
Arms touch in the movie theater and each pretends not to notice. There will be no kiss in this facade of a reunion between long-lost friends, but she makes sure to leave enough residual lipstick on the straw of his drink she casually takes a sip from.
***
Alcohol overtakes conversation in a near-abandoned Cuban restaurant. He wanted her years ago and is in awe of the serendipity that has reunited them 14 years after and 2500 miles away from where they first met. Until now, the only time they've met.
It seems, though, that the reunion is to be short-lived. Life journeys, started in the same place, are traveling opposite directions and passing at a random point in time. He is leaving for another place and another life. She is leaving for another place and the life he had just left. He, unhappy where he's been, longs to return somewhere he can smile about. She, unhappy where she's been, has never found that place. Hints of sadness reveal themselves in the admission of being lost in a sense of nostalgia. Longings for paths not taken.
"And I'm the nostalgia," she says. It is a statement as perceptive as it is sad.
He doesn't believe it matters, though, for everyone carries their past wherever they may go. But he'll not see her much longer, of that he's certain. This time, the divergence of their paths is to be permanent. She's to be so much more than nostalgia.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Vitis Coffea, Part II
*continued from Vitis Coffea, Part I
*adult content
There was no other way to put it... she was dressed to kill. The day after following him on the beach, she put on a sleek black dress and waited for him outside of the lobby. In French, she interrupted his reading of an English newspaper and asked him for the time. He responded politely and feigned a lack of notice of her figure, but a momentary widening of eyes betrayed him, and she could feel those eyes long after she said merci, monsieur and walked away.
As she hurried back to her hotel and changed for the day's work - the trip to Marseilles was not for fun and games, after all - she noted that he had an excellent French accent, but spoke horrible French. She also thought she saw an unsure recognition. Perhaps he did remember her from the night in the club, when he seemed so out of place, yet so exactly where he should be. Whether he did or not didn't really factor into her plan. If it did, she'd have given him more time to figure it out. Even so, she had made sure she wore the same perfume and made equally sure that he could smell it when he checked his watch for her.
***
"Hate to bother you... again, but what's the time?" English, this time. Already dressed for work, it is no accident that her jacket is unbuttoned, her skirt hiked just a little extra, and her choice of tank top just a little tight.
"Ah..." He's perplexed. She smiles her beautiful smile, knowing he definitely remembers her now. "7:17. How did you know I speak English?" It is a subtle English accent. Weak, almost non-native to England.
She taps his newspaper, The Daily Telegraph.
"Have we met?" he asks. "Before yesterday, I mean."
"Yes," she replies, beginning her walk away, "we have."
A small smile curves into existence on the right side of his mouth. He's not going to give chase, because he knows he'll see her again. "What's your name?"
"Alex." It's as if she were yelling out to everyone. Then again, she may have been.
***
They enjoy a lunch together, seated at a windowed table near the front of the restaurant. She planned to request an outside seat, but it's a bit chilly today and she doesn't want to appear too aggressive in spite of her aggression. Americans have a reputation of arrogance and she wants none - neither him, nor any witnesses - to come away from her with that impression. She's meticulous in her listening. Japanese grandparents immigrated to England, their London-born son marrying an American exchange student, and time spent at school in the United States. The sadness from the beach seems mostly gone and he's comfortable in his general loquaciousness. She loves to hear him talk, loves his voice as she spices up her mood with a few glasses of a house wine.
While he talks, politely attempting to keep his attention away from anything below her neck - and, indeed, from her neck as well... he finds its smooth perfection rather irresistible in itself - she moves her torso and legs in a way that makes it more than clear that she's wearing nothing underneath. As they leave, she imagines that were he to follow her, they could find some little used corridor and enjoy a flip of her skirt. But she will not let him, not today. Today, she repays his prior lack of notice with a tease. And an unspoken promise.
***
A promise kept under a loss of inhibitions, inspired by her Château Pétrus. Conversation as mere protocol lost beneath the wine-flushed burn of two distinct skin tones. Milliliters remaining mimicked by the millimeters separating the inevitable. And the bottle, now empty, a false reflection of a body filled with that of another's. It is a vintage lust, aged to perfection by her vinified patience. An uncorked pouring of emotion worth waiting for. It is a sommelier's intercourse, a matching so perfect and a coupling so expert that its execution need little conscious attention. This evening's specifics will mostly fail in memory, but its impressions will forever succeed in their imaginations.
***
She can't sleep. She lies on her side, staring out the open window overlooking Vieux Port, listening to his sleep-heavy breathing and feeling the warm exhale on the back of her neck. His arms wrapped around her, their bodies aligned perfectly in mock fetal positions. A smile from noticing that he's still aroused... whether by dream or residual thought makes no difference to her. She can't help burying her face in her pillow in attempts to hide uncontrollable giggles and an embarrassingly wide smile that she knows nobody can see. She had feared regret from effectively forcing this night, but none manifested. It all - everything about it - seems too right.
An inadvertent squeezing of her legs together fosters an unconscious reaction. She covers her smile with her hand as she's gently pushed onto her stomach. Feeling him on top of her, she widens her legs a bit to allow him in. His hands, childishly, caress her buttocks for a few moments before they graciously and gratefully begin a massage of her shoulders. The massage is more than enough to wet her and his penetration is a smooth and breathtaking glide. There is gentle teasing as he bites her neck with his lips and exposes her moon-reflected skin while shifting her beautiful hair to his pillow. Unlike before, sobriety ensures memory will be perceived accurately, and both carefully consider their movements, showing the other how much they want this to last forever.
A purposeful squeezing of her legs percolates a wine that he doesn't hesitate to taste. He looks up into her eyes and she makes another unspoken promise... this one to return the favor. And it is kept. Wines and sweat come together in the most intoxicating of cocktails. Her smile is omnipresent and only a sensual bite on her nipple convinces her that this not a dream.
***
She wakes up alone and a second that could've given away to panic instead remains calm. She hears him in the kitchenette, moving about. There's a scent in the air, one as comforting as it is encouraging. He has, obviously, no intention to leave.
"What were you doing at the beach the other day?"
He pops his head into the bedroom, an expression of curious satisfaction. "I'm sorry?"
"The beach. You seemed so sad."
His expression shifts to concern, though the curiosity amplifies. Her words clear implications that this - for him, anyway - was not pure serendipity. He disappears behind the door and another second that could've given away to fear also remains calm. He's returned to his task at hand. "I was," comes the muffled reply.
She rolls over onto her back and breathes a sigh of relief. "Why?"
Entering the bedroom holding two coffee mugs, he hands her one and sits on the edge of the bed. Her eyes brighten and she grabs it with both hands, hiding still another smile in a sip of local roast.
"I was wondering if I'd ever find you."
The schoolgirl giddiness overcomes her and she spasms uncontrollably in sheer joy. Lunging forward, she discovers that coffee tastes much better when poured from his lips.
*adult content
There was no other way to put it... she was dressed to kill. The day after following him on the beach, she put on a sleek black dress and waited for him outside of the lobby. In French, she interrupted his reading of an English newspaper and asked him for the time. He responded politely and feigned a lack of notice of her figure, but a momentary widening of eyes betrayed him, and she could feel those eyes long after she said merci, monsieur and walked away.
As she hurried back to her hotel and changed for the day's work - the trip to Marseilles was not for fun and games, after all - she noted that he had an excellent French accent, but spoke horrible French. She also thought she saw an unsure recognition. Perhaps he did remember her from the night in the club, when he seemed so out of place, yet so exactly where he should be. Whether he did or not didn't really factor into her plan. If it did, she'd have given him more time to figure it out. Even so, she had made sure she wore the same perfume and made equally sure that he could smell it when he checked his watch for her.
***
"Hate to bother you... again, but what's the time?" English, this time. Already dressed for work, it is no accident that her jacket is unbuttoned, her skirt hiked just a little extra, and her choice of tank top just a little tight.
"Ah..." He's perplexed. She smiles her beautiful smile, knowing he definitely remembers her now. "7:17. How did you know I speak English?" It is a subtle English accent. Weak, almost non-native to England.
She taps his newspaper, The Daily Telegraph.
"Have we met?" he asks. "Before yesterday, I mean."
"Yes," she replies, beginning her walk away, "we have."
A small smile curves into existence on the right side of his mouth. He's not going to give chase, because he knows he'll see her again. "What's your name?"
"Alex." It's as if she were yelling out to everyone. Then again, she may have been.
***
They enjoy a lunch together, seated at a windowed table near the front of the restaurant. She planned to request an outside seat, but it's a bit chilly today and she doesn't want to appear too aggressive in spite of her aggression. Americans have a reputation of arrogance and she wants none - neither him, nor any witnesses - to come away from her with that impression. She's meticulous in her listening. Japanese grandparents immigrated to England, their London-born son marrying an American exchange student, and time spent at school in the United States. The sadness from the beach seems mostly gone and he's comfortable in his general loquaciousness. She loves to hear him talk, loves his voice as she spices up her mood with a few glasses of a house wine.
While he talks, politely attempting to keep his attention away from anything below her neck - and, indeed, from her neck as well... he finds its smooth perfection rather irresistible in itself - she moves her torso and legs in a way that makes it more than clear that she's wearing nothing underneath. As they leave, she imagines that were he to follow her, they could find some little used corridor and enjoy a flip of her skirt. But she will not let him, not today. Today, she repays his prior lack of notice with a tease. And an unspoken promise.
***
A promise kept under a loss of inhibitions, inspired by her Château Pétrus. Conversation as mere protocol lost beneath the wine-flushed burn of two distinct skin tones. Milliliters remaining mimicked by the millimeters separating the inevitable. And the bottle, now empty, a false reflection of a body filled with that of another's. It is a vintage lust, aged to perfection by her vinified patience. An uncorked pouring of emotion worth waiting for. It is a sommelier's intercourse, a matching so perfect and a coupling so expert that its execution need little conscious attention. This evening's specifics will mostly fail in memory, but its impressions will forever succeed in their imaginations.
***
She can't sleep. She lies on her side, staring out the open window overlooking Vieux Port, listening to his sleep-heavy breathing and feeling the warm exhale on the back of her neck. His arms wrapped around her, their bodies aligned perfectly in mock fetal positions. A smile from noticing that he's still aroused... whether by dream or residual thought makes no difference to her. She can't help burying her face in her pillow in attempts to hide uncontrollable giggles and an embarrassingly wide smile that she knows nobody can see. She had feared regret from effectively forcing this night, but none manifested. It all - everything about it - seems too right.
An inadvertent squeezing of her legs together fosters an unconscious reaction. She covers her smile with her hand as she's gently pushed onto her stomach. Feeling him on top of her, she widens her legs a bit to allow him in. His hands, childishly, caress her buttocks for a few moments before they graciously and gratefully begin a massage of her shoulders. The massage is more than enough to wet her and his penetration is a smooth and breathtaking glide. There is gentle teasing as he bites her neck with his lips and exposes her moon-reflected skin while shifting her beautiful hair to his pillow. Unlike before, sobriety ensures memory will be perceived accurately, and both carefully consider their movements, showing the other how much they want this to last forever.
A purposeful squeezing of her legs percolates a wine that he doesn't hesitate to taste. He looks up into her eyes and she makes another unspoken promise... this one to return the favor. And it is kept. Wines and sweat come together in the most intoxicating of cocktails. Her smile is omnipresent and only a sensual bite on her nipple convinces her that this not a dream.
***
She wakes up alone and a second that could've given away to panic instead remains calm. She hears him in the kitchenette, moving about. There's a scent in the air, one as comforting as it is encouraging. He has, obviously, no intention to leave.
"What were you doing at the beach the other day?"
He pops his head into the bedroom, an expression of curious satisfaction. "I'm sorry?"
"The beach. You seemed so sad."
His expression shifts to concern, though the curiosity amplifies. Her words clear implications that this - for him, anyway - was not pure serendipity. He disappears behind the door and another second that could've given away to fear also remains calm. He's returned to his task at hand. "I was," comes the muffled reply.
She rolls over onto her back and breathes a sigh of relief. "Why?"
Entering the bedroom holding two coffee mugs, he hands her one and sits on the edge of the bed. Her eyes brighten and she grabs it with both hands, hiding still another smile in a sip of local roast.
"I was wondering if I'd ever find you."
The schoolgirl giddiness overcomes her and she spasms uncontrollably in sheer joy. Lunging forward, she discovers that coffee tastes much better when poured from his lips.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Vitis Coffea, Part I
The Asian was hopelessly drunk the night they danced together, so she prepares to remind him of her name. She does not, however, prepare for his complete lack of recognition. Of course, a little tipsy herself that night, a small possibility exists that this is not the same man. Still, she is certain of his identity and the memory of first noticing him is a sober one. Or is it? Yes, of course it is. The momentary confusion exists only due to the badly lit club allowing his face to disappear in a sea of faces.
Lying prone on a towel at a small beach near La Pointe Rouge harbor, she watches as he walks by her and continues down the sand. The sweat on her skin, just on the pale side of a golden brown, glistens with disappointment. Removing her bun, then sweeping her dark brown hair from her face, she nudges her black Prada sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and takes another look. A gentle breeze carries a few shoulder-length strands of hair, as if gesturing to follow, while the rest of her longer hair caresses her back and assures her that, yes, it is him.
She exhales slowly, cautiously reexamining her attraction to him that night. She wants to think that it was probably just of the moment, lust enhanced by being in a foreign country, and that she imagined the shock at seeing him. C'est la vie and all. But she believes too much in serendipity and can't shake it. He's been in her dreams for years. Someone like him, anyway. Someone who looks very much like him.
Standing, she pulls a light and dark-brown patterned sarong out of her beach bag and wraps it around her waist. Nervous of her conscious decision to pursue him, she hesitates before donning her black shirt. She picks the towel up and pops it clean. Securing her sandals in her right hand, she rolls the towel and shoves it in her bag while trying futilely not to appear to be in a hurry.
Thankfully, the Asian moves slowly, eyes to the ground, pausing every few steps to look out at the Mediterranean. Finally, he sits in the sand and stares at the horizon. Again questioning her own intent, she considers approaching him... instead, she maintains safe distance, finding a bench farther from the water and pretending to share the view. He seems sad, somehow. Alone. But maybe that's how he prefers it. Or, maybe, the sunset reminds him of a broken heart patiently awaiting a new dawn. Smiling inwardly at the thought, she places her sunglasses in her bag and watches the horizon fade as sky darkens into sea, the water's surface penetrated by a retreating twilight.
She's no idea what either of them are doing there.
***
Unsure of whether to let it - him - go or not, she listens to the sounds of the city and absorbs herself into their chaotic consistency. The vehicles of passersby mimicking the flutters in her stomach. Why not? deafens any question of why?
He sat there for hours, and so did she. Even when the cool sea air began to arouse goosebumps on her skin - she blamed it on the sea air, though his silhouette certainly may have been a cause - she waited. Even when he lay on the beach - awake, but motionless - she waited.
By the time he finally leaves, she's realized that something is wrong. Not with her, nor with him, but with the moment. She's caught up too eagerly in her desire, and he's caught up too introspectively in his mystery. Her intent to approach abandoned, she follows him to learn where to find him. Almost as in a film, two taxis pull up almost simultaneously and she orders the driver of hers - in her limited French - to follow the other.
She is joyous to discover serendipity again with her; he's staying at the Oceania Escale, just around the corner from the Kyriad Carré Vieux Port... her hotel.
Later, in her room, she enjoys a bottle of Château Pétrus, a congratulatory gift from her mother in San Diego. Merlot, she finds, warms her nicely. A chemical foreplay for the most devious and long-awaited seduction of her life. She wanted to wait for his touch, should it ever come, but she soon finds herself enjoying her own. There is a youthful and reckless abandon in the way she uses her hands and fingers, but the whole of her mind and body are smiling in unison, and she can't but help bring them to laughter.
As she fades into sleep, she dreams of tomorrow. It will be the start, no doubt, of one of the most memorable experiences she'll ever have.
*continued in Vitis Coffea, Part II
Lying prone on a towel at a small beach near La Pointe Rouge harbor, she watches as he walks by her and continues down the sand. The sweat on her skin, just on the pale side of a golden brown, glistens with disappointment. Removing her bun, then sweeping her dark brown hair from her face, she nudges her black Prada sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and takes another look. A gentle breeze carries a few shoulder-length strands of hair, as if gesturing to follow, while the rest of her longer hair caresses her back and assures her that, yes, it is him.
She exhales slowly, cautiously reexamining her attraction to him that night. She wants to think that it was probably just of the moment, lust enhanced by being in a foreign country, and that she imagined the shock at seeing him. C'est la vie and all. But she believes too much in serendipity and can't shake it. He's been in her dreams for years. Someone like him, anyway. Someone who looks very much like him.
Standing, she pulls a light and dark-brown patterned sarong out of her beach bag and wraps it around her waist. Nervous of her conscious decision to pursue him, she hesitates before donning her black shirt. She picks the towel up and pops it clean. Securing her sandals in her right hand, she rolls the towel and shoves it in her bag while trying futilely not to appear to be in a hurry.
Thankfully, the Asian moves slowly, eyes to the ground, pausing every few steps to look out at the Mediterranean. Finally, he sits in the sand and stares at the horizon. Again questioning her own intent, she considers approaching him... instead, she maintains safe distance, finding a bench farther from the water and pretending to share the view. He seems sad, somehow. Alone. But maybe that's how he prefers it. Or, maybe, the sunset reminds him of a broken heart patiently awaiting a new dawn. Smiling inwardly at the thought, she places her sunglasses in her bag and watches the horizon fade as sky darkens into sea, the water's surface penetrated by a retreating twilight.
She's no idea what either of them are doing there.
***
Unsure of whether to let it - him - go or not, she listens to the sounds of the city and absorbs herself into their chaotic consistency. The vehicles of passersby mimicking the flutters in her stomach. Why not? deafens any question of why?
He sat there for hours, and so did she. Even when the cool sea air began to arouse goosebumps on her skin - she blamed it on the sea air, though his silhouette certainly may have been a cause - she waited. Even when he lay on the beach - awake, but motionless - she waited.
By the time he finally leaves, she's realized that something is wrong. Not with her, nor with him, but with the moment. She's caught up too eagerly in her desire, and he's caught up too introspectively in his mystery. Her intent to approach abandoned, she follows him to learn where to find him. Almost as in a film, two taxis pull up almost simultaneously and she orders the driver of hers - in her limited French - to follow the other.
She is joyous to discover serendipity again with her; he's staying at the Oceania Escale, just around the corner from the Kyriad Carré Vieux Port... her hotel.
Later, in her room, she enjoys a bottle of Château Pétrus, a congratulatory gift from her mother in San Diego. Merlot, she finds, warms her nicely. A chemical foreplay for the most devious and long-awaited seduction of her life. She wanted to wait for his touch, should it ever come, but she soon finds herself enjoying her own. There is a youthful and reckless abandon in the way she uses her hands and fingers, but the whole of her mind and body are smiling in unison, and she can't but help bring them to laughter.
As she fades into sleep, she dreams of tomorrow. It will be the start, no doubt, of one of the most memorable experiences she'll ever have.
*continued in Vitis Coffea, Part II
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Window
He can see her, but he can barely hear her. Even with the listening device, the window doesn't allow sound through all that well. She's extraordinarily beautiful - to him, at least - and he'd be hard-pressed to dream of a woman more attractive.
They met in Cozumel, Mexico. She was traveling the world, fresh from secondary school. With no desire to immediately attend college, she packed her bags and left everything behind. He was a sophomore at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, on Spring break. Not much of a traveler - he likes to keep to himself - his friends talked him into accompanying them to yet another tourist trap.
Sublimely unaware of his eyes gazing upon her, she goes about her business, dusting shelves and preparing her evening meal. She's speaking, but he's since put away the device out of frustration. Besides, he's far more interested in staring at the movement of her lips than the words. Pity she's not a bit closer. Of course, proximity runs the risk of giving his devious intentions away. He licks his upper lip in anticipation.
He was glad he went. An inopportune bar brawl between French and American partiers led to him taking a broken bottle on his left shoulder - a bottle that would have hit her had he not got in the way. There wasn't any chivalry involved in the decision, it's just that he had stared at her for most of the night and didn't want his evening obsession left scarred in any way. The blood and protruding glass in his shoulder led to sympathetic conversation, which led to sympathetic dinner, which led to romance. Only lasting three days, it was the best three days of his life. She enjoyed them, herself, but they failed to resonate with her as strongly as they did with him.
The notion of voyeurism creeps into his mind, but he doesn't care. She's worth looking at; she's worth listening to, and he's aware of the possibility that he'll never touch her again. Something distracts her and he moves away, pretending not to notice. She doesn't need his piercing eyes to add to the distraction. And he doesn't want this moment to end. The perfect body in the perfect frame.
They exchanged contact information, but as she circumnavigated the globe for nearly three years, her information soon proved useless. Caught up in the grand adventure that is the world, the excitement of Cozumel quickly hid itself beneath the excitement of seeing and experiencing things she'd only dreamed of while growing up in Glasgow, Montana.
She reacts to the distraction - clearly, she heard some sort of noise. Out of reflex, he checks his surroundings. Did he..? No, he knows better. He's been sitting here for the better part of two hours and he's done nothing save whisper a few longing words. There are dogs barking, but they are in neighbors' yards and not aimed at him. Still, the excitement arouses him.
Finding himself oblivious to any other women, he succumbed to depression, dropped out of college in his final semester, and joined the US Army. A mental breakdown - related to her, no doubt - forced an early discharge. Though not in in love, he nevertheless renewed a relationship with an old high school girlfriend and got his life together, at least partially. Subsistence was his only recourse.
She screams at something and his curiosity overcomes him. He leans in so closely, trying to get a better view, that his breath fogs up her image. He's been breathing hard, conscious of his own caress, and backs off. The vapors need wiping clean, but he decides that might be too conspicuous. They dissipate just when a cat appears in the window. He hears her scream at it again. Damn... it's blocking her. His hand swipes at the air in a useless gesture.
When an old friend became a private investigator and the Internet afforded the capability, he managed to track her to South Africa. Search engines devoid of contact information, he spent nearly all of his savings and hired his PI friend to go to there. She married a businessman in Johannesburg and took a job with the South African Sports Confederation and Olympic Committee. Now divorced, she had kept her married name.
Her hands grab the cat and he gets a good look at her fingers. Oh, those sensual fingers. He's not been this close to them since Mexico. He must be careful... showing up like this is probably odd to her, but so far she seems to have paid no mind. She moves away, out of the room, and returns a few minutes later wearing a robe. He curses his limited visibility, tracing her body with a finger and imagining the lines underneath.
Leaving his girlfriend, he tried to relocate himself overseas, but life and money kept getting in the way. He often wondered if it would have been better had he gone to South Africa himself, but knows he probably wouldn't have found her. So he watched from a distance, trying to summon the courage to reenter her life. One time he built up the nerve to call her, only to fail in building up the nerve to actually speak. But hearing her voice renewed his sense of purpose. She would be his. One way or another.
"Sorry," she says. "Just wanted to get comfortable."
"It's okay," he replies, having plugged the headset and microphone back into the computer. There's some frustration that she's so pixelated, but her memory is as clear as day, and that's all his eyes require.
"When are you coming to visit me?"
He smiles. Though she's careful not to be obvious, she clearly harbors affection. It's too bad there's an ocean between them. He considers sending the inventor of the web camera a thank you note.
"As soon as I can."
They met in Cozumel, Mexico. She was traveling the world, fresh from secondary school. With no desire to immediately attend college, she packed her bags and left everything behind. He was a sophomore at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, on Spring break. Not much of a traveler - he likes to keep to himself - his friends talked him into accompanying them to yet another tourist trap.
Sublimely unaware of his eyes gazing upon her, she goes about her business, dusting shelves and preparing her evening meal. She's speaking, but he's since put away the device out of frustration. Besides, he's far more interested in staring at the movement of her lips than the words. Pity she's not a bit closer. Of course, proximity runs the risk of giving his devious intentions away. He licks his upper lip in anticipation.
He was glad he went. An inopportune bar brawl between French and American partiers led to him taking a broken bottle on his left shoulder - a bottle that would have hit her had he not got in the way. There wasn't any chivalry involved in the decision, it's just that he had stared at her for most of the night and didn't want his evening obsession left scarred in any way. The blood and protruding glass in his shoulder led to sympathetic conversation, which led to sympathetic dinner, which led to romance. Only lasting three days, it was the best three days of his life. She enjoyed them, herself, but they failed to resonate with her as strongly as they did with him.
The notion of voyeurism creeps into his mind, but he doesn't care. She's worth looking at; she's worth listening to, and he's aware of the possibility that he'll never touch her again. Something distracts her and he moves away, pretending not to notice. She doesn't need his piercing eyes to add to the distraction. And he doesn't want this moment to end. The perfect body in the perfect frame.
They exchanged contact information, but as she circumnavigated the globe for nearly three years, her information soon proved useless. Caught up in the grand adventure that is the world, the excitement of Cozumel quickly hid itself beneath the excitement of seeing and experiencing things she'd only dreamed of while growing up in Glasgow, Montana.
She reacts to the distraction - clearly, she heard some sort of noise. Out of reflex, he checks his surroundings. Did he..? No, he knows better. He's been sitting here for the better part of two hours and he's done nothing save whisper a few longing words. There are dogs barking, but they are in neighbors' yards and not aimed at him. Still, the excitement arouses him.
Finding himself oblivious to any other women, he succumbed to depression, dropped out of college in his final semester, and joined the US Army. A mental breakdown - related to her, no doubt - forced an early discharge. Though not in in love, he nevertheless renewed a relationship with an old high school girlfriend and got his life together, at least partially. Subsistence was his only recourse.
She screams at something and his curiosity overcomes him. He leans in so closely, trying to get a better view, that his breath fogs up her image. He's been breathing hard, conscious of his own caress, and backs off. The vapors need wiping clean, but he decides that might be too conspicuous. They dissipate just when a cat appears in the window. He hears her scream at it again. Damn... it's blocking her. His hand swipes at the air in a useless gesture.
When an old friend became a private investigator and the Internet afforded the capability, he managed to track her to South Africa. Search engines devoid of contact information, he spent nearly all of his savings and hired his PI friend to go to there. She married a businessman in Johannesburg and took a job with the South African Sports Confederation and Olympic Committee. Now divorced, she had kept her married name.
Her hands grab the cat and he gets a good look at her fingers. Oh, those sensual fingers. He's not been this close to them since Mexico. He must be careful... showing up like this is probably odd to her, but so far she seems to have paid no mind. She moves away, out of the room, and returns a few minutes later wearing a robe. He curses his limited visibility, tracing her body with a finger and imagining the lines underneath.
Leaving his girlfriend, he tried to relocate himself overseas, but life and money kept getting in the way. He often wondered if it would have been better had he gone to South Africa himself, but knows he probably wouldn't have found her. So he watched from a distance, trying to summon the courage to reenter her life. One time he built up the nerve to call her, only to fail in building up the nerve to actually speak. But hearing her voice renewed his sense of purpose. She would be his. One way or another.
"Sorry," she says. "Just wanted to get comfortable."
"It's okay," he replies, having plugged the headset and microphone back into the computer. There's some frustration that she's so pixelated, but her memory is as clear as day, and that's all his eyes require.
"When are you coming to visit me?"
He smiles. Though she's careful not to be obvious, she clearly harbors affection. It's too bad there's an ocean between them. He considers sending the inventor of the web camera a thank you note.
"As soon as I can."
Sunday, June 13, 2010
A-M-L-C-S
Strange... as I talked to a friend the other day, the subject of women came up. I guess that part's not strange, since I talk about women often, but this particular conversation went specifically to women whom I've been "enamored" with. Now, as a blatant hopeless romantic and serial-luster who "falls in love" at least once per day, even I figured this number to be relatively high. Much to my surprise, though, it's not (please do not interpret anything you read here as boasting or bragging that I'm some sort of "ladies man," for I am anything but).
In attempting to determining my "enamors" (using subjective standards, of course), I considered women that I've 1) fantasized over for significant periods of time - excluding celebrities - 2) pursued, regardless of success rate, or 3) legitimately dated or otherwise spent significant amounts of time with. This number was, I'll admit, a bit high. But while trying to figure out how to eliminate those who obviously didn't qualify as enamors, it dawned on me... I've always written about what Chazz Palmintieri's character in A Bronx Tale refers to as "the great ones." And I'm not talking little puberty-induced pornographic tales in high school, or amalgamating a real woman into a fictional character...
I've written about these women. Quite in-depth and quite often. And, in counting them, there are only five. That's it. Five. Five women I've ever seriously considered spending the rest of my life with. No more; no less.
The first was "A," and I met her at my first college. For three-and-a-half years, I had a bit of an arbitrary rule I adhered to: no relationships while I'm active duty. And I didn't. There were plenty of almosts, should Is, I want tos, and shits-she's-gorgeous, but I never gave in. Call it a misplaced sense of discipline (well, yeah... that's what it was), but somehow I never gave in. Until I did.
After my first tour I, reenlisted and attended a semester of college as a reward for staying in the Army. And there she was. "A." She was (and is, to this day) extraordinarily beautiful. A dark-haired, pale-skinned wonder from Ecuador. At the time, were I to close my eyes and imagine my perfect woman, "A" would've have been extremely close. And, as a young hopeless romantic, there were poems written of her. Nothing any good, of course, since I didn't yet understand poetry (probably still don't, to be honest), but it was written.
"M" followed "A" rather quickly, almost to the point of overlap. Putting it simply, "A" lost interest before the dust had even settled, and I went on my merry way. Just after that semester ended, a friend of mine introduced me to "M" who, as luck would have it, lived a mere 500 miles away. Still, we hit it off and maintained the relationship across the distance. Poetry was written for this one, too. Better than the stuff for "A," but still pretty bad.
"M" called the relationship off after I did something extremely stupid (no, I didn't cheat on her, nor did anything that could've gotten me arrested) and it fucked me up emotionally for about the next year-and-a-half. I almost even got myself thrown out of the Army during the fallout. All ended well, though, and we were even civil to each other at a wedding we both went to (that of the friend who introduced us, actually).
Granted, with both "A" and "M," I was still very young (that's my excuse and I'm sticking with it).
A couple of years after "M," there was "L," a local girl whom I broke another arbitrary rule for (no local girls). "L" would become, to this day, my longest relationship. And, probably by no accident, my worst. It lasted about 7 years longer than it should have, but there were money and assets involved, and so things devolved into a bit of a twisted chess match. She sucks at chess, but she won anyhow (if anyone could be called a winner). I wear no scars from women save from "L."
"L" is, frankly, the subject of at least 75% of the poetry I've written (though not here). She's also the subject of several woe-is-me rants and is even the basis for many villainous characters in stories I've written. Yes, there's a bad taste in mouth from "L," but I honestly don't hold any ill-will towards her (anymore, that is). And, in point of fact, given that so much has been written of her by myself, she is undeniably one of my enamors.
In the midst of "L" (in-between, actually... we had several break-ups and I never cheated on her... or anybody, for that matter), there was "C." The result of breaking yet another arbitrary rule (no one under 24), "C" was extremely young and a bit naive, but oh, such a thing to look at. And she was deceptively sweet. Though feelings weren't exchanged between us until after I left the East Coast, we reunited for a time upon my return. Most know how shitty 2006 was to me, emotionally-speaking, and "C" helped me through it. Her 2006 was pretty bad, itself, and we took advantage of that old cliché: misery loves company. She wound up in several poems, a couple of short stories, and even inspired a character (along with Natalie Portman... heh) in an early script.
Unfortunately (or fortunately... yeah, likely fortunately), we were both surrounded by other relationships that kept getting in the way. That, and she revealed herself to be dishearteningly materialistic and a tad crazy (whoa, the temper on that one). Needless to say, that one faded into history.
Two years later, during the tail end of purging "L" from my life, there was "S," the most pragmatic woman I know. A bit serendipitous, and never what I would call a real relationship, I had actually met "S" 14 years before I ran into her again. By simple providence, we had wound up living in the same part of the country, some 2800 miles away from where we first met.
As implied, "S" - unlike the others - was only peripherally an object of desire. There was too much going on in our individual lives, anyway... I was leaving the East Coast again and trying to avoid the military. She was staying and trying to join the military. But she did something for me that no one else did... the right person at the right time, in essence... she kicked me in the ass and helped get my life back in gear (she was, actually, the person who finally convinced me to completely let "L" go). She's also the primary muse behind my proliferation in writing this past year or so (there is an entire week's worth of writing dedicated to her). For that, she's enamored.
And that makes five.
Except... I haven't been completely honest. There's a sixth. I'm trying very hard for there not to be; I've got shit to take care of, after all... and I need there to be no distractions until I can afford distractions. Especially not one so young, beautiful, and on her way. Thankfully, this sixth is more an idea and an image and less a real person, allowing me to maintain some semblance of practicality.
Problem is... I'm writing about her. And there's no chance of her ever leaving the page.
Somebody shoot me.
In attempting to determining my "enamors" (using subjective standards, of course), I considered women that I've 1) fantasized over for significant periods of time - excluding celebrities - 2) pursued, regardless of success rate, or 3) legitimately dated or otherwise spent significant amounts of time with. This number was, I'll admit, a bit high. But while trying to figure out how to eliminate those who obviously didn't qualify as enamors, it dawned on me... I've always written about what Chazz Palmintieri's character in A Bronx Tale refers to as "the great ones." And I'm not talking little puberty-induced pornographic tales in high school, or amalgamating a real woman into a fictional character...
I've written about these women. Quite in-depth and quite often. And, in counting them, there are only five. That's it. Five. Five women I've ever seriously considered spending the rest of my life with. No more; no less.
The first was "A," and I met her at my first college. For three-and-a-half years, I had a bit of an arbitrary rule I adhered to: no relationships while I'm active duty. And I didn't. There were plenty of almosts, should Is, I want tos, and shits-she's-gorgeous, but I never gave in. Call it a misplaced sense of discipline (well, yeah... that's what it was), but somehow I never gave in. Until I did.
After my first tour I, reenlisted and attended a semester of college as a reward for staying in the Army. And there she was. "A." She was (and is, to this day) extraordinarily beautiful. A dark-haired, pale-skinned wonder from Ecuador. At the time, were I to close my eyes and imagine my perfect woman, "A" would've have been extremely close. And, as a young hopeless romantic, there were poems written of her. Nothing any good, of course, since I didn't yet understand poetry (probably still don't, to be honest), but it was written.
"M" followed "A" rather quickly, almost to the point of overlap. Putting it simply, "A" lost interest before the dust had even settled, and I went on my merry way. Just after that semester ended, a friend of mine introduced me to "M" who, as luck would have it, lived a mere 500 miles away. Still, we hit it off and maintained the relationship across the distance. Poetry was written for this one, too. Better than the stuff for "A," but still pretty bad.
"M" called the relationship off after I did something extremely stupid (no, I didn't cheat on her, nor did anything that could've gotten me arrested) and it fucked me up emotionally for about the next year-and-a-half. I almost even got myself thrown out of the Army during the fallout. All ended well, though, and we were even civil to each other at a wedding we both went to (that of the friend who introduced us, actually).
Granted, with both "A" and "M," I was still very young (that's my excuse and I'm sticking with it).
A couple of years after "M," there was "L," a local girl whom I broke another arbitrary rule for (no local girls). "L" would become, to this day, my longest relationship. And, probably by no accident, my worst. It lasted about 7 years longer than it should have, but there were money and assets involved, and so things devolved into a bit of a twisted chess match. She sucks at chess, but she won anyhow (if anyone could be called a winner). I wear no scars from women save from "L."
"L" is, frankly, the subject of at least 75% of the poetry I've written (though not here). She's also the subject of several woe-is-me rants and is even the basis for many villainous characters in stories I've written. Yes, there's a bad taste in mouth from "L," but I honestly don't hold any ill-will towards her (anymore, that is). And, in point of fact, given that so much has been written of her by myself, she is undeniably one of my enamors.
In the midst of "L" (in-between, actually... we had several break-ups and I never cheated on her... or anybody, for that matter), there was "C." The result of breaking yet another arbitrary rule (no one under 24), "C" was extremely young and a bit naive, but oh, such a thing to look at. And she was deceptively sweet. Though feelings weren't exchanged between us until after I left the East Coast, we reunited for a time upon my return. Most know how shitty 2006 was to me, emotionally-speaking, and "C" helped me through it. Her 2006 was pretty bad, itself, and we took advantage of that old cliché: misery loves company. She wound up in several poems, a couple of short stories, and even inspired a character (along with Natalie Portman... heh) in an early script.
Unfortunately (or fortunately... yeah, likely fortunately), we were both surrounded by other relationships that kept getting in the way. That, and she revealed herself to be dishearteningly materialistic and a tad crazy (whoa, the temper on that one). Needless to say, that one faded into history.
Two years later, during the tail end of purging "L" from my life, there was "S," the most pragmatic woman I know. A bit serendipitous, and never what I would call a real relationship, I had actually met "S" 14 years before I ran into her again. By simple providence, we had wound up living in the same part of the country, some 2800 miles away from where we first met.
As implied, "S" - unlike the others - was only peripherally an object of desire. There was too much going on in our individual lives, anyway... I was leaving the East Coast again and trying to avoid the military. She was staying and trying to join the military. But she did something for me that no one else did... the right person at the right time, in essence... she kicked me in the ass and helped get my life back in gear (she was, actually, the person who finally convinced me to completely let "L" go). She's also the primary muse behind my proliferation in writing this past year or so (there is an entire week's worth of writing dedicated to her). For that, she's enamored.
And that makes five.
Except... I haven't been completely honest. There's a sixth. I'm trying very hard for there not to be; I've got shit to take care of, after all... and I need there to be no distractions until I can afford distractions. Especially not one so young, beautiful, and on her way. Thankfully, this sixth is more an idea and an image and less a real person, allowing me to maintain some semblance of practicality.
Problem is... I'm writing about her. And there's no chance of her ever leaving the page.
Somebody shoot me.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Gravity
He realizes as he stares up at her that there is no word for her. Gorgeous comes close, but is too superficial. Beautiful, though accurate, misses something. He realizes as he stares down at her that a word is not necessary. Her landscape is perfect with its imperfections. He realizes as he stares up at her that she is the word. Constantly at the tip of his tongue, caught between speech and taste.
She's timid in the light, hurrying to wrap the bed sheet around her body. The way the fabric sticks to her curves, caught within the gravity of her sweat, keeps him aroused. He can think of nothing, except what she wants him to think. She turns off the light and the sheet morphs into wings, carrying her gently through the air as she lands gently on top of him.
He's never had a coherent conversation during sex before, but somehow she manages to separate his mind from his body, arousing each in simultaneous and distinct ways. His body, grounded, feels the physical pleasures of hers. Her brunette hair shifting lightly against his stomach and his legs. Guided hands guiding in turn. At the tip of her tongue, caught between speech and taste.
His mind, aloft, races to comprehend just how wonderful she is. Though that word, too, fails. He often dreams of flying and this is what it feels like. Even with eyes closed he knows she's looking up at him. There's a smile in her eyes that he can hear. She is the top of his world, and he is upside down.
The climb begins. Soft curves slide into place A mouth waters another, both now silent and tasting of each. Her hair shifting lightly against his face. Her wings fall to the side and he carries her gently through the air as he lands gently within her. Guided hands on hips, then guiding other hands. At the top of the world, caught between the sky and the sea. A word finally comes to him... she is fluid. Snow on a mountain finding its way home to the rivers below. And he must drink.
***
He wakes up, quite literally from the dream. That her shoes remain safely and comfortably on the floor lets him know... quite figuratively, as well.
She's timid in the light, hurrying to wrap the bed sheet around her body. The way the fabric sticks to her curves, caught within the gravity of her sweat, keeps him aroused. He can think of nothing, except what she wants him to think. She turns off the light and the sheet morphs into wings, carrying her gently through the air as she lands gently on top of him.
He's never had a coherent conversation during sex before, but somehow she manages to separate his mind from his body, arousing each in simultaneous and distinct ways. His body, grounded, feels the physical pleasures of hers. Her brunette hair shifting lightly against his stomach and his legs. Guided hands guiding in turn. At the tip of her tongue, caught between speech and taste.
His mind, aloft, races to comprehend just how wonderful she is. Though that word, too, fails. He often dreams of flying and this is what it feels like. Even with eyes closed he knows she's looking up at him. There's a smile in her eyes that he can hear. She is the top of his world, and he is upside down.
The climb begins. Soft curves slide into place A mouth waters another, both now silent and tasting of each. Her hair shifting lightly against his face. Her wings fall to the side and he carries her gently through the air as he lands gently within her. Guided hands on hips, then guiding other hands. At the top of the world, caught between the sky and the sea. A word finally comes to him... she is fluid. Snow on a mountain finding its way home to the rivers below. And he must drink.
***
He wakes up, quite literally from the dream. That her shoes remain safely and comfortably on the floor lets him know... quite figuratively, as well.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Beautiful Water
In the blue, over the blue, twin seas collide. Patience amid chaos, currents of wind and water caught between the hopes of breath and blood, longing for a moment that will never come. Storms of fury, propelled by lust, levied by the construct that some call love. But, they are not, and it is not. Merely the glint of beauty under a sun that shines everywhere, as long as they are nowhere.
In the blue, over the blue, hopes give way to reality. Impatience amid order, nature continuing her course between invention and convention, coming to a moment that never happened. A hurricane of thought, eroding memories unlived, but imagined. She is beautiful, though alone. Hints of what lies beneath blinded by a face that would again launch a thousand ships.
She is blue, within the blue, alive on a literal and figurative island. Patience amid order, following the rain as it washes away conscience and the remains of the day. Precipitation on the precipice, flowing down the path of least resistance while wondering what it would be like to be a flake of snow. Creativity gives way to necessity, and tears obscure a visage so wonderful when smiling.
There is no blue within the blue, as one shade fades into the next. Impatience amid chaos, enjoying the arrival of coming and going on a whim. She loves being wanted and wants to be loved, but knows that rivers of desires run to no command but their own. There is no beauty like water's, and none like the tiny beads of sweat, almost imperceptible, on the body of a woman I'll never see.
In the blue, over the blue, hopes give way to reality. Impatience amid order, nature continuing her course between invention and convention, coming to a moment that never happened. A hurricane of thought, eroding memories unlived, but imagined. She is beautiful, though alone. Hints of what lies beneath blinded by a face that would again launch a thousand ships.
She is blue, within the blue, alive on a literal and figurative island. Patience amid order, following the rain as it washes away conscience and the remains of the day. Precipitation on the precipice, flowing down the path of least resistance while wondering what it would be like to be a flake of snow. Creativity gives way to necessity, and tears obscure a visage so wonderful when smiling.
There is no blue within the blue, as one shade fades into the next. Impatience amid chaos, enjoying the arrival of coming and going on a whim. She loves being wanted and wants to be loved, but knows that rivers of desires run to no command but their own. There is no beauty like water's, and none like the tiny beads of sweat, almost imperceptible, on the body of a woman I'll never see.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Arson
flick, switch
match strike
bursts of flame
quench
lustful thirsts
her room afire
beneath his passion
though wet
not water
lovers burn
to the ground
match strike
bursts of flame
quench
lustful thirsts
her room afire
beneath his passion
though wet
not water
lovers burn
to the ground
Thursday, December 10, 2009
The Snowbird
Feathers of ice
falling from a dying bird
that I cannot see
Though you've not told me
I'm certain your wings are bare
under the blanket of white
and your body will not be there
come Spring
falling from a dying bird
that I cannot see
Though you've not told me
I'm certain your wings are bare
under the blanket of white
and your body will not be there
come Spring
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