04 September 2006

Sheets.

Rick tosses his hips at Simone and his weight tumbles around her; she catches him, easing down just enough so that his legs stay on the bed as she rolls underneath him. Only to rattle the picture frames and shimmy the necklace off the nightstand. Only to snap the blinds against their windows. He is these noises and a few of his own; his muscles shake the bed coils, the clunking iron frame. Headboard bucking, Simone laughing, white fistfuls of sheets, and oh how much more noise could there be, how much goddamn noise and then their eyes meet. Everything slows. He holds her with ten fingers, palms, wrists, a thigh over hers, his lower back feeding his torso to her belly, his biceps cupping her shoulders, his breath and his not blinking. A man in a stare. He is everything in the room save the bones beneath her skin.

02 September 2006

Afterwork.

Simone has returned from her day. Throws her bag on the kitchen stool, leans toward relaxing but starts talking, confident in her afterwork monologue, how it bends across the kitchen shedding intrigue. An arc, a chaos of talk, the general to the minutae blending in their echoes from the kitchen tiles to the hardwood living room floor. In the lyric play of her eyes and voice Simone is fascinating; if I close my eyes she’s unbearable. Yet once she’s exhausted her larynx, resigned to the kitchen counter to flick at some nothing with one bent knuckle, an elbow painted along the surface – when she looks at me with humanity’s efficient day laid to waste on her eyelids, is finally content and at home – she is like no woman I’ve ever known. Colors swarm her face. I lose a little of my individuality in her beauty, and even moreso when, finished with her talk, she asks me a question. Every day for a week. A new question. Today is Friday. She asks, “Are you going to ask your sister to come visit?”