those fig mornings

You have a freckle on your wrist. I watch it when you turn the pages of your book, your muscles swivelling. I like this indeed.

You read Kurt Vonnegut. I like this too. You read fast and your lips never move. Once you laughed out loud and I saw your pointed teeth. I crossed my legs, and pressed.

I can tell you’re left handed. You have a long thumbnail and I imagine it flicking across your guitar strings. I know you’d sing Big Mama Thornton songs with a husky voice. I lower my head with a smile, and hum along.

I think you sleep on the left side of the bed. I think I say this because I sleep on the right, but I can’t be sure. You twitch in your sleep and your hands reach for something that’s never there, but you don’t remember this when you wake. No-one ever tells you.

Once, I sat behind you and I swear you smelled of figs. I imagine you cupping their pale green roundness in your hands, and sliding that nail into their succulent flesh. I see you scooping out seeds and passing them into your warm mouth, crunching them between sharp teeth. I tend to look away from you when I imagine this. I tend to blush.

Your hair is shorn and at the nape of your neck are several silver hairs, almost lost amongst the black. Each time I see this I feel such a desire to touch them that one day, I’m scared I might. I imagine what they’d feel like against my fingertips. I wonder what your hands crave.

You talk to alley cats when no-one else is looking and drink your coffee black. You’re not a morning person but that’s ok, neither am I. We’ll smile about that later.

Tomorrow, you’ll wear your blue Friday coat with the wide collar and I’ll have my ruby satin heels. I saw you glance at them once, look away, and then glance back with a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. I notice everything. You made me strut that day.

Some day soon, I’ll sit near you with my eyes on that freckle as the pages turn. Before I can imagine those hands and their path across me, I’ll lift my gaze, and smile. I’ll speak.

I think my voice won’t tremble, but I could be wrong.

And you’ll show those pointy teeth again as you smile back.

those fig mornings

bellmusker

Melbourne, Australia

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Artist's Description

A work of fiction, for once.

If only tram rides were really this enjoyable……..

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