"Ah! Sunday mornings…" He thought.
And the day broke demurely through folds of satin over her face, the fluid contours of light and dark, disappearing into her skin. She slept peacefully, that angel of innocence. The velvety pinkness of her nightgown spilling over like lathered waves into the crisp white linen beneath. He had made love to her, the night before, passionately. As if there would be no end, everything fast fading into a trembling haze of liquid oblivion. Eventually, however, exhaustion had crept in and they had drifted into gentle slumber, their fingers entwined, deep fulfillment gushing through their being, dissolving boundaries into faint silhouettes.
They were like fresh dewdrops on a leaf-blade flowing calmly into each other, glistening as one with the sun etherized in it.
"Ah! Sunday mornings and paradise…" He thought.
And he reclined languidly in bed. Watching the ceiling fan swirl slowly in serene circles over his head. Listening to the sporadic melodious tinkle of the wind chime as it danced with the soft breeze. Drowning shadows of the week's disappointments in moldy pages of novels he re-read. Drinking the sounds of people as they wandered to the streets wearing happiness on their sleeves. Observing the moths flutter against the dim glow of corner lamps covered with silk scarves. Feeling the sudden emptiness in the pit of his stomach after sipping umpteen cups of hot brown coffee. And swaying to the soothing beats of classic mush rock on the old stereo in low volume.
"Ah! Sunday mornings and her, here, now…" He thought.
And she woke up to the lingering wet aroma of his lips on hers, her entangled hair forming a limp wispy canopy on the pillow. The unlatched frosted glass windows basking in the bluish tinged gold of the skies, restlessly moved in and out. She looked in that direction to the green grass outside, oozing sweet sticky sweat through seams of lost time. Resting her slender manicured fingers delicately on his face, she traced a long curve leading to his chest, pushing him down, flat on the cold marble floor. Her alluring laughter in thin teasing raspy voice, echoed inside the closed concrete walls. Shoulders thrown outwards in puerile defiance of his intentions, she called him to her.
"Ah! Sunday mornings and eternities " He thought.
"Ah! Sunday mornings and the kiss of death " He thought.
remarkable story telling!
have read and re read it so many times still could not get over it…
wat crafts(wo)manship! delicately woven n pointedly potrayed….
the temptation …u have made it more sensuous with ur picturesque words!
Gosh! Do you write! You engage total complete attention…and the details are brilliant.
kudos…
whoaaaa! what poetic way of describing the story..loooooved it like anything…especially (And they played games in the watery hollow of the bath, surrounded by an army of wax melting with the flickering orange of the flames, kneading shoulders, stroking necks, squeezing palms, pinching noses, pulling closer till they disappeared with the soapy bubbles.)
Sensuous!!!
your diligence with detail amazes me..each story is so lavishly detailed that it reminds me of Sanjay Leela Bhansali movies..where every single frame is a peice of art..perfect to the last single detail..super Swats..u hv made infedility look cool..
..TED
Though I have already expressed myself on this piece ‘’someplace else”….I really liked the penultimate para. Had a captivating flow to it, I found.
Khukee…a very sensitive piece…infidelity isn”t it? I absolutely love the way you”ve used words to paint a dainty picture…such succulent prose…it’’s a poem no less!
ditto fg, even I cudnt figure this one….but an awesome piece of writing nonetheless….
Interesting piece!!!!!
good
Enigmatic. “She will be coming back shortly to you.’ She said and arose, kissing him goodbye”… This is where I”m completely lost. Who is the ‘’she” she is referring to? What is the nature of the relationship between the two women in this story? Mebbe you should consider being less cryptic. Warm Regards, Ghost
Nice.