Thursday, June 8, 2006

An idea of bliss

We live in a cold country, or perhaps it is just the season. I am lying on a thick white rug in front of the fireplace, safe from the nippy air in my cocoon of warmth. In an armchair by the fireplace, He sits. There is a book on his lap.

Words flow out, dark and glittering, from the old bottle and circle and swirl in my ear while I savor the taste, the richness, the body and let the gentle fumes rise and intoxicate my senses. He has a clipped, crisp accent muted by the deep resonance of his voice and the slow pacing of his words. Whimsical phrases, elegant constructions, delightful alliterations, brisk sharp dialogues come tumbling out in crystal clear intonations. He slows down with the story, his full, luscious lips perfectly shaping the words, sensually caressing them before letting them go out into the air where they drift down to where I am. His voice rises and drops with the words, at times playing catch up to the wild uncontrollable beasts, at times easing away and slowing down and waiting for them to come back to him. There are dark undertones to the story. He knows this. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, his voice drops, my heart paces. A deafening silence is stretched out for an eternity. Then. An explosion of words, sounds, consonants! A twist in the tale, his eyes shine, his lips curve up by the faintest of fractions, his pristine white teeth are barred, the words flow out faster than I can catch them, snippets of dialogues and guilty imagery burst into the atmosphere, briefly jostle for space and then suddenly die, leaving a void, a vacuum, a negative of noise, an afterimage of an afterimage. It’s not over yet, there is more, his breathing slows, his voice drops to a whisper again. The words are gently nudged, shy and naked, into the outside air…

And I… I lie on the rug clothed only in my skin and I listen.

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