(In keeping with a love theme for the week. Enjoy)
In the darkness, Desmond watched her body under the covers basked in the pale moonlight, which cast a dull blue hue across the room. The white linen sheet, glowing phosphorescent in this light, draped over her hip revealing two tattoos which few ever saw. Outside, the wind whistled in the early autumn sky quaking tree branches and rattling the old single paned windows of the room. Her breath was slight, and he strained to see the rise and fall of her ribs as a chill air filled her lungs and exited, humidified and warm, through pink pursed lips.
He examined the curves of her body with his gaze in the sleepless state that enveloped him. The graceful line of her hip, the arch of her back, the curve of her breast were all the art of Clarisse, the scultpture of beauty carved organic out of blood and sinew, fiber and bone. With the lightest touch, his fingertips skimmed the surface of her soft skin. It felt as if this connection sent an electric blue arc between the two. They had given themselves to each other, and that was all they needed, drunk on each other’s love.
In the onyx night, nothing else mattered but they. As if all the worries and cares that come with the light of day, the mundane trivial problems which do not matter, were consumed by the blazing fires of sunset. This inferno raged and left nothing but the emptiness of night, to be filled and replaced by a fiery inferno of their own passions.
Each night they repeated the cycle knowing morning would always come again, but for those hours of the night, they were owned by one another, a mutual agreement of possession. When daylight came, the world invaded their space, and the responsibilities that bind all rushed in. Sometimes, in that dull early morning light, Desmond would awaken, and sliding across the void, hold tight Clarisse feeling the warmth they created together. This always led to amorous feelings as they embraced, taking each other beneath their sheets, small giggles and rushes of air escaping their lips. On mornings when the oppressive summer heat was too much to bear, they made love to the rhythm of the cattywampus fan overhead, off balance by the slightest degree, creating a whir and click with each revolution of the blades.
The bed was their universe. Let’s say Universe #1. Where they were together, always. Where they were at their simplest, together, Desmond and Clarisse. This was their Universe, where they controlled it all. In that bed, they had all they wanted; each other. That was the perfection of their Universe. They yearned for nothing more. A fiery passion, pure love.
Universe #2 consisted of temporary moments of togetherness. Getting ready for work, flitting through the house, a tie knotted around the neck while minds flickered through calendars of the day. The stress of the world eked through and began to take over their thoughts, but while they were still within touching distance of each other, there was ease. Kisses were snuck while sitting at the kitchen table. Coffee shared in the picture window before the daily commute, touching each other in one way or another. These were stolen moments to capture the essence of one another, as if bottling the last little drops and reminders to get them through the day apart.
The commute. Alone amidst a sea of automobiles piloted by the herd. One person after the other repeating the daily route with no thought for the routine; automatic, rote, mundane. Autopilot. No individualism required, this was Universe #3, where Desmond and Clarisse functioned solely to exist. As if Universe #1 was so taboo they had to put on this mask, day in and day out just to have those passions. But they each knew dusk always comes, even if daylight is longer on some days than others. Eventually darkness will consume the day.
The sunset blazes fire and explodes reds, oranges, purples and yellows into the darkening sky, as stars vibrant and twinkling flash an electric light show celebrating the return of Universe #1. Always to return, night covers the jejune day, the impassivity of the world, where Desmond and Clarisse find succor in their embrace. Some say repetition is hell, but maybe it can be heaven as well.
Drinkers with Writing Problems 