Silver skin; moon within
[ fiction - december 05 ]
There is a lot of time in the world to unwind in wicker chairs on still, dull, bird-less afternoons. To listen to a bleak piano in your head, to shift and change position, to look. Windows are entreating trespass, giving out light and soft voices of the body, emanating songs of fluids. Thus, a woman lies in waiting: soft as the bed, whiter than the sheets. From the multifaceted window, I pry on her secret glow. From her multitudinous windows, she gapes at the glow. Time is the slowest of the invertebrates evading classification. And her hand is keeping time with mine. The still air reverberates with rustles of the skin. The still air is full of her intravenous din. My, my small whispers to her fail to penetrate my ecstasy. My, my soft murmurs fail to stir the faintest of emotions in her. And bright and stark as Sirius, she glows on my retina. My retina faints with these mechanical phantasmagorias. On such a still, bird-less afternoon, she stares into oblivion. And I stare too, into her private abyss, trying to discern and dissect my bliss from her bliss. Then I see what she stares at. Staring with ferocious glow, her eyes entreating emancipation: her eyes entreating entrance to my room. A mirror before her, oblique and immaculate. And I in the mirror naked as the floor. My hand keeping time with her hand. My hand keeping time with the phantom hand in the mirror starker than the floor. So time rapidly reaches climax, crescendo, and we are left behind. Breathing out murmurs of poisonous whine, breathing in whispers of wine. So there is indeed such a time sitting still on a wicker chair, which hangs in the gloom of the afternoon. Softly my hand retracts from her glossy body beyond oblivion. Sadly, she retreats hers from the gaudy image in her mirror. And we waltz a step or two behind the lingering afternoon with blessed cherries in our bellies, poppies in our mouths.