She had eyes, glinting yellow, not canary feathers or mustard but the brownish hue of sunlight filtering through honey. I should sooner have pissed my pants and run away than sit there beside her, with her floating black hair, now dark in the shadows, now tawny in the peeking light from the doorway. There are other people, but they have no faces. Why would they need faces when I know who they are? Do I know who they are? Did I bathe this morning?
She smiles and I lean closer, slow down, stop, look into her eyes. And they're yellow no more, just the grey of Winter craving warmth of heavy air over the meadow. I can smell her now, not the intoxicating perfume she wears, but the salty, moist smell of her skin, the dewy low of nostalgia and palpitating heartbeat of the second till I can taste the gap between her lips, almost palpable and I stop, look, her eyes are closed.
What's this? I'm a hundred and seven and aging, in a library with a book long overdue, with the patient, sympathetic look on the face of the apple-cheeked boy behind the counter, and somebody stop this! Flicker and change, and why is it dark? She's here again, the taste of her lips on mine and we're dancing, where are the candles? The floor slips out of sight in the wake of her nimble feet touching mine, and why are we dancing? Why is there light? Why am I awake?
10 comments:
Jaundice.
You're wrong.
Then?
Magic!
I never thought a semi-romantic style would work for you but you're twisted enough to add sufficient twist to the remaining semi-ness :P
Thank you for lending some volume to the comment thread! And now that I have gathered all 6 comments I can move on :P
Your comment thread is BLOATED.
Like your nose.
My nose isn't bloated, it's crooked.
Shutup.
Okay I read this again. "Did I bathe this morning" ? No, Really?
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