Smile, softness.
He sees her coming a long ways away. In a way, he authors her direction, her every move.
Armed with knowledge and trust in their tryst, he can imagine she has been following her internal compass towards him.
Heavy skirts of cream with mud splattered near the bottoms. Black riding boots showing the odd time she must raise her dress to skip over a puddle, a pile of dirt.
-
Ava will mend this. She sees him waiting a long ways away. He waits and she can imagine he has arrived following his internal compass.
-
Ada throws one look to the heavens and frets. Burdened by light and sleepy, she imagines a world of darkness. Never a piece of light to be found, always searched. Her favourite horse is black. Misha. Misha is all muscle, all heart, all sweat.
Wouldn't it be lovely if the night moved like Misha?
Resisting rest, constantly warm with movement. Sincere movement, unbridled and constant.
A moving night, she fancies. With glints of darkest blue, darkest emerald green sometimes offering glints, offering suggestions of a light that won't come but that might .. promise to show its fickle fragmented face again. Perhaps, perhaps..
She brushes her hair, chooses a light cream dress. Drinks her tea. Sips. Sips. Writes some poetry.
Ada is wasting away. She is, isn't she?
The moon slivers to come back whole
whole in th'emblazoned hole
till there's nothing left
at all
Adam knows the nucleus of her sadness can only just be explored. It will remain intact. It will remain. But it's her tiny bits of happiness that manage through, suffocated, struggling, gasping for air to survive that has intoxicated him.
She has intoxicated him and he cannot get enough.
In class, Maria and I giggle our way through Proust.
"The smell...its impact.." hand poised mid-sentence as if it's holding an empirical truth discovered madly one night deep in analysis.
Our professor, red in the face with emotion, threatens to collapse with joy at any moment. I cannot contain myself.
Our professor... Well, he loves Proust as much as he loves Monet. Inevitably, he would throw an "experiment" our way.
We were supposed to imagine the sun's warmth. Then write a piece.
I looked around before we began, and wondered just how many of these poor souls would write on Icarus or Akhenaten or Ra. I knew those girls with the rich parents would indulge and begin fantastical endeavours on chariots, and morning skies brimming with brilliant hooves triumphantly heralding the first light, pure and resilient. He-li-os. Helios.
I crumpled mine up. It didn't even have a mark. Just a note - "Come see me during Office Hours"
Bathing in the fireworks, we change colours. Pinking, I look at you blueing away.
You look so sad, with the salt in your hair, the way that shirt opens up that wound I crave for; your tanned chest and the way your heart beats that damn sun-tanning lotion towards me. I lick my lips, and the curly hair I just dyed blue blows away like waves on land. You smile at me with your blond hair and black eyes and your freckles grinning like baby oranges thrown on tanned shores.
In a bar on the shore, I've just finished a shot and I'm licking away the salt off my joints like a hungry mermaid stressing. You haven't called today, and I'm beginning to think I'm easy. But I also don't want to be hard anymore. The place has purple lights everywhere, and I can see you coming in looking for me. I say hi. You wave. I smile. You smile too, shyly.
The albatross lurks from a rock offshore. Silly blue humans, making magic with dried sticks and little sparkles. Bumping into each other and waiting for ignition. Faint drums are heard, like sacred rituals from long ago. Thursting, booming, safely, and far away, tucked away under the palm trees, under the watching coconuts filled with sugar. Bodies mix and match, and wait on the island in the sun to save themselves from the cold. Sick, spoiled and delicate we fear the tidal waves which bring thorny fish from Poseidon's depths, we sneeze at howling winds and shake underneath our cotton comforters thinking of tomorrows.
Meanwhile, outside, tepid-blooded mermaids scream and rip through those who just wanted to see the krill light up under the moonlight. They open up ribs, and their blond hair catches blood here and there. The pure is the easiest to be coloured. Their pearly teeth become pink and orange as bones crush; the starfish hanging by their ears scavenge bits and pieces. I sit mesmerized in his arms, and wipe the ketchup from my lips. What was that hunger I felt the first night? Full, he gets up, drinks his milk, and falls asleep naked on the canopy. Oh life, oh love. Yum.
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