Milk

I love train rides.
Love hearing the ker-chat ker-chat talking to me from the tracks.
Some passengers are marzipan people living a sculpture of sweet almond kindness.
I am not this kind of affection confectionary.
I am molasses and unsalted butter.

… it was a while ago now when I shared a few train stops with a couple and their baby girl.
I knew a little and also a little too much of them; some people have this open life odor about them.
I have a strong sense of smell.
What a poor man’s cliché that really is for someone like me who has from thousands of miles away smelt the turned back of my lover as he took the hand of another.
I can smell the hint of a rain drop in Jamaica and the whiff of retiring thoughts settling in for goodnight moments.

Our seats formed right angles so to not look at them would require me to look upwards, ceiling bound.
I had no choice in the matter; our seating position was the unavoidable impetus giving permission to keep reading them.
I tried to stop staring into them, it was no good I was awake in them and my head was quietly barking from the connection.

The couple’s clothing had been washed and dried with arguments and passionate making up love.
I wondered if they could see their own genetic design in their daughter as she wobbled in her grubby, washed out, pretend pink jumpsuit.
She gurgled innocent globby dribbles for her daddy and mummy.
I noticed the smell of her mummy’s eager breast milk with that primal need to feed her daughter.

Daddy had no smile on his lips only a muted null and void line.

….. ker-chat, ker- chat…..my knees were close to his.
The burn of nearly touching his space put heat into my cheeks.

Human milky scent with life enzymes for nurture… it hung sour around me.
Some smells stir more in me than others… a nip of nausea trickled down my throat.
Then it began , the rise and fall of my stomach with a quest to expel my breakfast, my imagination rallied to keep me contained…
..… ker-chat ker chat ….. my head barked louder.
I needed another visual… there that woman, the grandmotherly type with her knitting, click clack, click clack.

click clack, ker chat, click clack , ker chat ….
I swallowed hard.

The train stopped and mercifully they stood up and got off taking their human milk flavoring and their story with them.
Our brief sojourn ended; leaving me to my destination with my stomach lined with more imagination.

© K S Hardy 2010

Milk

Arcadia Tempest

Joined November 2008

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Artist's Description

I wrote this a while ago and have spent time re-writing.

This is a true snapshot story…. with only a few embellishments

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