The scent on her pillows. A combination of spice soap, tabacco and oranges coupled with the fruit,
flower and amber blend of her perfume. Rinds balanced on the night table cupped his discarded seeds along with the single butt of a cigarette. Putting one out some twist it nervously into what looks like rope. Others smash it until its cold ends are a grotesque flower. Gathering the remains of a breakfast in bed, she recalled him twirling the fag lightly into the rind as he laughed. It hissed softly as the cherry was extinquished in the moist pulp. The smoke curled off his hand--incense to a god of mirth. Laugh lines branched to his temples. Tenderly she kissed them, felt the flutter of lashes on her cheek and a tremble under the lids as if she had switched on a bulb in the dark and he was adjusting to the light. The look in his eyes. A mixture of wonder and unease. With a hurried kiss, he dressed to leave.   

Holding a pillow to her face she closed her eyes and inhaled their mutual breath. She remembered
melting mouth-to-mouth. The way his hands journeyed the map of the world from her neck to the curve of her hip in leisured stops at points along the way, fingertips circling her skin in a sensuous trance. He cooed in a deep throated whisper. That night the moon was a blue saucer and its luminescence shone silver through the curtains. They swayed in slow dance with the wind. Made love as if it stopped time. Fell asleep front to back, two spoons nestled in a buffet, their hands woven as one...

The clock chimed eight times at the top of the hour. Opening her eyes she felt the bright stare of sun in the window. It burned square frames on the wood floor and sent her shadow fleeing across the
room from the light. She counted each bong as the sound reverberated off the wall and assaulted her
ears. Watched the pendulum swing back and forth and the hands move forward in micros. Listened
for an eternity until it stopped. She took the linens from the bed, removed the pillow cases and folded them into the center of the sheets. Placed them in the washer, then ran her bath. She eased into the
hot water, crying out in shock as it covered her cool skin. Steam rose in a shroud. A fly fell from its
orbit around the room onto the faux marble vanity top and twitched and buzzed on its back in a seizure. Then it was still. She folded herself into a fetal position, arms around her bent knees, forehead resting in between. And she cried.

 

(c) Linda Gayton 2006