Monday, October 05, 2009


She painted the color of his eyes with imaginary fingertips. Grey circles. Like targets boring into her. Or a coyote's stare through autumn underbrush.

Across the table, she dipped into the water of those eyes as he spoke. And as he didn't speak. Never did she feel the nervous weight to look away. So strange. Her usual reserve fluttered somewhere above her. Like laundry waltzing on the wind. Clean and apart from her. Fears of exposure rinsed away.

She had to sit close to him. Surely he understood.

He didn't shrink away.

Any farther and her hands might claw for him. This close, he was within reach. The churning thoughts of wanting, needing, would not snap and rip through her. The mountain of emptiness not crushing her.

She touched the martini to her numb lips and the swaying dance of her senses. Was the heat from her? From his skin? The dark brush of hair darkened his chest near the shirt collar. The ripples in his neck glowed ruddy in the candlelight. She wanted to breathe there. Where his shirt cut into shadow. Where his chin would cradle her nestlings.

They say the last and greatest reward of love is the melting fire of joining. The thing that can't be undone. She shivered with it. Parted her lips to it.

And then he is not talking, and she is not rippling the pool of his eyes.

Her fingernails are denting his skin. Her thigh climbs over his.

She breathes where she so longed to breath. Her head is thrown back as he does the same. The waitress utters a partial word and turns away.

They must be right about the final reward, because she can't bear the cry, her rush to suicide. She needs to become. She needs to die.

Their lips collide and the table shoves away.

A check appears with his money splayed across it.

In the dark, down the halls, she shudder-groans. She will never again fear to crave.


Karen said...

Intriguing picture of desire. I don't think many people can do this well - this capturing the anticipation and fulfillment. You do it extremely well.

Shadow said...

you've created the urge for sure!

Vesper said...

Jason! It's always on Mondays, isn't it?... :-)

Thank you for brightening my day with this exquisitely sensuous poem in prose.

Stacey J. Warner said...

Monday is off to a good start...nothing like craving...and satisfying it.

PhilipH said...

Constant craving, yes!

K D Lang sings it beautifully and you could almost put music to your story.

Nevine Sultan said...

This is desire so heavy, so thick, you can cut into it. "She wanted to breathe there. Where his shirt cut into shadow." Those two sentences were what spelled out the magnitude of her emotion, for me.

Your use of short sentences as paragraphs unto themselves toward the end creates the separation between the two things that are happening very effectively. Brilliant!

Karen said...

I'm laughing at Vesper's observation! Oh, Aine!?

Jean said...


(p.s. on my blog... those are eyes.)


Anonymous said...

Karen, thanks. :) These moments can be difficult to write. A delicate balance. It can easily go astray.

Shadow, excellent!

Vesper, ha!! I think you're right! Why waste this kind of energy on the lull of weekend traffic? ;)

Stacey, amen. A worship of heat and bonding.

PhilipH, KD Lang got a better yearn going than I did. :)

Nevine, then the magnitude spoke loud enough to be heard. Thanks. :) I focus a great deal on pacing. I want the reading experience to mirror what it is like to live it. As the characters' perceptions fragment in their surrender, so does the paragraph structure.

Karen, :) :) Aine will be with you in a minute....

Jean, eyes?? Oh. I see (no pun intended). The prior comments threw me. ;)

Mona said...

That is extremely difficult prose to write( I have experienced it to be so). One wrong word can make such prose go astray and make the sensuous sound like gross.

You have done this perfectly!

Aine said...

Karen...erm (shuffling feet), yes, weekends seem to have a way of inspiring Jason to create these posts. And then, you know, the kids go back to school on Monday...

Amias (ljm and liquidplastic) said...

Yes, I see what you mean when you said, "The mortal dance of animals that live in the dark corners of our minds."

... I could add "the dark corners" of imagination, but is a woman an animal or is it craving for something that is unattainable, that brings out the animal in humanity?

Good read. Thank you for dropping in.

Unknown said...

This is so beautiful. I have felt this, and you write it so well. To put words to some a wordless thing... well done.

PixieDust said...

oh,my... this was quite sensuous... my favorite line:

Like laundry waltzing on the wind.

It is so beautiful and sweet and could have gone into an innocent, hands-holding, walking-in-a-meadow type way, or the route you chose: passionate. Very well done.


Anonymous said...

Mona, it's true. There is fine line between passion and over-the-top/overdone.

Aine, I need a lot more inspiration. Assuming you don't mind. ;)

Amias, thanks for coming over! I think we all have animals lurking. Our evolution never did shed them.

PaperDoll, thank you! And welcome!! I'm moved that this felt real for you. A distillation of something primal and ageless.

PixieDust, you're right about that purity capable of going either way. In each path, the bond reaches blood deep. And thanks for sharing your favorite line!