Calliope

Poom!

Pop-pop-pop-pop!

Poom! Poom!

The sky darkly overcast,

though neither moon nor stars shone from above,

millions of lights from Coney Island’s boardwalk

cast an eerie bank of fog-shrouded light from the east.

Reclining on an outdoor sofa upon the flat roof,

the young man’s back propped against the padded armrest,

his legs spread forward,

the young woman’s back against his chest,

his arms about her waist.

The sofa turned towards Coney Island

where pre-Fourth of July revelers were

firing rockets and firecrackers.

A thin stream of barely discernible

light arched, wavered into the black sky and,

Poom,

erupted in a flower of twinkling points of silver light.

Speaking softly in her ear,

“You thought of any names yet?

Anyone dead you’d like to name

the baby after?”

In the Jewish religion,

newborns are often named after a

deceased person,

giving the child their name in Hebrew,

or a facsimile of the name in English.

“No, no one I can think of.”

The young woman replied,

“How’s about you?

Any dead aunts, uncles, friends?”

“No,” he said,  

“everyone I know is still alive.”

Each savoring the comfort of the balmy night

and the closeness of the other,

other than the distant,

Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop

of firecrackers, all was silent.

 “Well,” the young man said

after a few minutes,

“there is a name I’ve always loved.”

Thinking, He’s kidding.

Turning her head to look at

the shadow of his face.

“Yeah,” she asked,

“what name?”

“Promise you won’t laugh?”

Now knowing, It’s a gag,

“Yeah, sure, I won’t laugh!

Wha’z’it?”

“Well, I’ve always loved this name

and thought I’d really like to name

a kid of mine someday.”

“Really, eh?” Turning her body,

facing him,  “So tell me already,

What’s this wonderful name?

Giggling, “Calliope.”

“Calliope?”

 The young woman questioned,

“What if it’s a boy?”

“That’s the beauty of the name;

it’s non-sexual.

‘Calliope’ can be used for anyone.”

“You know, if it were anyone but you,

I’d say ‘you’ve got to be kidding!’

But you? I’m not too sure.”

Holding her face,

moving it to his,

“I love you, baby.”

“Really? Calliope?

You’ve got to be kid…”

His mood suddenly changing

from frivolous to serious,

his mouth cutting her words off,

his hand finding the bottom of her pullover blouse…

Regarding smaller busted young women:

occasionally they can go without a bra and a guy,

sometimes,

somehow doesn’t notice.

But…

Always aware of his wife’s closeness,

always cognizant of her sexual presence,

in his reflective mood he,

somehow,

hadn’t noticed and rather than the slick,

confining bulb of material that usually encased her breasts,

the soft touch of bare, warm flesh surprised him

and the bare touch transmitted instantly from hand

to upper brain to lower brain.

His sudden surge of passion, arcing to his wife,

ignited hers…

Somehow,

not aware of the shifting of positions during the fervent kiss,

now sweetly pressed beneath his body, as….

Lifting the blouse to her neck,

even in the darkness of the night,

aided by the distant burst…

Poom!

of a red, white, and blue skyrocket,

The young man saw the white of

his wife’s  breasts against the tan of her

chest and stomach and,

both wearing old, worn Levi’s,

fumbling with her all-but-impossible-to-unbutton,

especially in this position, steel buttons.

“Baby, don’t.” she said unconvincingly.

 “Someone may come up here.”

“No one ever comes up here!

There’s never anyone up here,

even when the sun’s shining!”

Sliding his hand beneath the band of her panties,

“Why would anyone come up at night, at…”

glancing at the luminous face of his watch,

“10:47?”

Feeling his touch, ‘there’,

“Yeah,”

she murmured,

“whoever comes up here?  

But I’m telling you,

if anyone comes up here and catches us I’ll die,

then I’ll kill you!”

“Don’t worry about it!”

Considering the speed in which he had,

he could only hope she had also,

because,

Poom!

It was over in a spectacular flash of pulsating delight…

“Honey?”

Still ‘together’,

catching his breath,

“Yeah, baby?”

“You know you were wrong, don’t you?”

“Huh?” Breathing warmly in her ear,

“Wrong about what?”

“Someone did come on the roof after all.”

©August 1, 2011 / Mark M. Lichterman