Click. Click. Clickclickclickclick.
“What are you writing?”
The boyish frenzy of hair swirls her step.
“I don’t know.”
Clickclickclick. Click.
She claims his shoulders.
“You don’t know?”
His muscles sharpen. A warning.
“It’s a complete, fucking mystery is what it is.”
Click!
She places her chin on his head. The wet fingers of her hair cup his face.
He leans into her.
She shivers.
“But you always say this . . .”
Click . . . click . . . ?Her hands stream down his chest. Particles of water duped into mist.
She reaches for his belt.
His hand fires.
Skin gasps.
He locks onto her wrist, following its warm promise, awakening to her damp bareness, her shocking
otherness. The apple of her shoulder. The wings of her collarbone. All this sweet terrain.
He stirs.
She rounds the chair, sliding his lap between her legs.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“I just thought you should know.”
Her lips are plums.
“Mm?”
“That I’m falling in love with you.”
His hands halt their dizzy progress.
“Only now?”
She advances her curves into his hard lines.
“But—”
She kisses him.
His elbow recoils.
Click.
He pulls back.
“We’ve—”
Click.
“Been—”
Click.
“Married—”
Click.
“For—”
Click.
“Seven—”
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ick.
“Centuries.”
She traces his lips with her thumb. He follows.
“But it just came upon me again. Like a spring day.”
He places his hands on her shoulders to study her.
And shrugs.
“You’re a complete, fucking mystery is what you are.”
She tucks her chin down, mostly smiling.
The light from a computer falls silent.
Two hearts twirl into warmest, wettest rain.
[Art:
Lovers in the Red Sky, by Marc Chagall]
