How odd that I should have fallen so in love that thought of you filled every waking moment.
And how odd that you, so beautiful with wild mane and dark eyes, agreed to marry an ordinary guy with few prospects. I made you laugh, you said.
Happy, we strolled hand in hand. We kissed and your hair curtained my face.
How odd that I can't pinpoint the day, the hour, love stopped. It slipped away like sand, grain by grain. I built a dam with flowers and sweet words. Sieves that just prolonged the end.
I saw pain on your face as you said goodbye.
My heart withered in my chest. How odd that I should be the one to stop loving - that I should be the one to leave. How odd. How odd.
Once again the room tipped inward. Pictures, spaced neatly on yellow painted walls, slid together in a jumble of colour. In the comer a settee danced with an easy chair, leather arms touched, seats met like outthrust hips.
The ceiling split, lips seeped through the rent and spilled out like billows of candyfloss. "Why don't you end it?" they hissed.
Max closed his eyes, something bad was happening. "Yeah, why not." He plunged into the abyss.
Blood pumped, a rippling chocolate fountain.
The lips covered the wound in his throat.
"Suppertime," they whispered.
Outside, night traffic hummed.
I am blind and feeling is all. He eases me onto a bench. I feel wood, firm against my spine. His fingers slide, strong and yet gentle, exploring, probing. The air is heavy with the scent of oil and I wait for sensation as his hand slips, soft as honey, searching unseen crevices.
His breath is laboured now as he seeks to relax me. His hands pleasure me as they circle. He takes me in his arms and I can feel his heart beating as he lays me down. I sink into softness and wait for him to mount. I groan as his legs grip my sides and his pelvis eases slowly back and forth. The pace quickens, we merge and are one, the man and his saddle.
Art: Beautiful Women, The Linnet's Wings House Art