There were those sparks, orange and luminescent, that could’ve set the room on fire on that wintry night atop a hill were even bushfires weren’t common!
The smell of funk hung heavily in the air, dissipating her fruitiness and his muskiness. His fingers traced every contour of her body that was intertwining into his at a relishing pace.
She thought to herself how she was secure of being the perfect forgery of a loving woman since the time she had torn her heart out and broken it into a million pieces and flung it into a bottomless chasm long ago.
He stifled her groans as he explored the crevasses of her cunt and made her writhe irrepressibly. She impeded and swallowed all the sweet nothings that she wanted to fling at him. They weren’t in the confines of a secure womb after all. He on the other hand incorrigibly made his way into her ears leaving her swooning.
The next morning, he slid in next to her again as she lay coiled in a mystifying question mark. The sheets fashioned in a labyrinth of simplicity that complicated their state of mind…
She got home late that evening, still weak in the knees and with no control over her limbs. She sat humming to herself as she cut out photographs to hang up on her red and purple walls. They came from her tiny box that lay hidden from the world…pictures of places she wanted to visit, trips she had taken-alone and unfettered, handwritten scraps of paper that bondaged her thoughts on them eternally. She turned to her wooden box so often…each time she had something to add to it…this time it was the memory of a weekend that might quiver off, that might be the background hum of drunken conversations she’d have with her girlfriends weeks later…
L will always remain L in those conversations; he would stay a nameless entity, a draft of wind that wafted past her and put a smile on her face.
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