She donned the nightgown with a peculiar grace.
It slipped silk along her torso, falling around her knees
as the moonlight through a window caused it to glow.
He saw her and for a moment thought she was an angel
but as she closed the curtains and turned on the light,
the truth was revealed in his eyes.
He set his book on the night table along with his glasses
and slipped off the plaid flannel robe infused with the
scent of bourbon pipe tobacco. He shut out the light.
She slid under the sheets and sighed as her body fell into
the indentation the weight had caused over many years,
the cocoon a comfort after a tiring day.
He sat on the edge of the bed, yawning and setting the
alarm-clock radio. Then he rolled over into sleep, pulled
the covers around him and shut out the world.
He groaned as he remembered he had let the dog outside
and wearily reached for the lamp. He stepped into his
slippers and stumbled towards the kitchen door.
She drifted into a dream where she was riding along the
ocean with the wind romancing her bare skin. In the
distance was another rider. He was heading toward her.
Reads like a good short story. When I was at WVU, there was this beautiful grad student who never married. She had a certain aversion to men. I was surprised to hear that she had married a German artist in residence who had whisked her off to Argentina.
A year later, I saw her back in school and asked her how Argentina was. She replied, "Oh, I got my dream of riding naked on a deserted beach, but he turned machismo down there and I had to leave him."
I felt the almost bittersweet sadness of the woman's heart. Comfort perhaps in the old familiar but yet...a longing to be romanced, shown passion and be desired...stunning write for sure.
fee
Linda,
You render this without bias or attitude, tell it like it is, and for me a great sadness permeates the deliberate, matter-of-fact telling. It's simply so true.
Sounds like bedtime at my house except we keep the door open so the dogs can come and go. Pete, our big lab has his own bed indentation, right next to mine. I'll have to ask Eileen if she's been riding again. Patrick
Reviewed by Jerry Bolton (Reader)
Reviewed on January 15, 2010
I like this. No pretentiousness. No steamy sex. Two people. One of which still can think of his wife as an angel.
I met Jerome on a busy city street in Baltimore, Maryland, when he was forty-five years old. On that particular day, I was out and about, enjoying a much-needed day off from work.
I wanted to purchase a sukiyaki sub. I parked my car in an area of
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Regis. 🙏🌳🌲💚🍁
A year later, I saw her back in school and asked her how Argentina was. She replied, "Oh, I got my dream of riding naked on a deserted beach, but he turned machismo down there and I had to leave him."
Ron
Anna
Georg
fee
A very good descriptive piece, with wrap round lines that tell a story.
get lost in the shadowy routine of time.
superbly written,love the pic!..
Love,
Eileen
You render this without bias or attitude, tell it like it is, and for me a great sadness permeates the deliberate, matter-of-fact telling. It's simply so true.
John