Pas a Deaux
It is going to rain, which is all right as it’s the end of the day and I had planned on spending the night reading Racine. The one cloud which carries the storm is a giant, slow moving beast who takes all of dusk to crawl across that of the sky which is visible between my building and the one opposite, where earlier when it had still been hot I had seen a girl. The same one who I always managed to become an unintentional voyeur of.
Today was different, she was clad only in her underwear, phone cradled between cheek and shoulder, slicing a cantaloupe. There was an odd symmetry that the French windows of my bedroom lined up with those of her kitchen.
I had seen her often in clothes that appeared comfortable and surely were reserved for wearing only around home. The thin off white robe which went well with her mocha skin, drawstring pants whose legs sometimes got stuck in the top of her socks, a faded tee shirt that was now gray and might once have been black.
Naked, I saw a little belly which showed that, like me, she believed a little pleasure at the table was nothing to worry about. Her breasts were pendulant, swinging as she bent down without dropping the phone, for something out of view.
Twice her hands absent mindedly wandered towards her nipples which were dark and erect. She smiled but quickly moved them away as if receiving an electrical shock.
What ever dish she had been preparing was ready, she suddenly arched her back for a moment and then quickly left the room. I do not know if she saw me and I wondered what she would look like tomorrow.
Little Monkish (Pencil & Paper)
- Wayne H W. Wolfson 2009
wwolfson@aol.com
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