I imagined Valentine sex would be different than regular Sunday morning sex. Spunky, fragrant as plumaris, a dianthus supurbus experience.
Three weeks ago, I made a date with Vee and insisted she block time for us in her calendar. She agreed only when I promised to stick to the schedule. Continue reading
Her polished and manicured nails tapped, gestured, and pointed like laser beams as she chatted. His eyes followed their movements. They were mauve, like the tulips marching up the sides of the gravel driveway, with rounded tips, paler underneath, slivered crescents of colour that she dug her thumb nail under, flicking and clicking as she read her women’s magazine. She licked her index finger to turn the page. Watching her made him hungry.
He picked up the Easter issue of Chatelaine. The cynosure of food photography teased him. Maybe they should try something new, get the juices flowing. “Creamy Turkey Penne with Brussel Sprouts” would jump-start the conversation – although the recipe didn’t match her nails. Or he could try the “Roast Lamb Turkish Pizzas”, a little Kasbah Italienne Alfresco with a nice Merlot. (Does one dine Alfresco or Alfredo?) Or should it be white wine with lamb pizza – a nice fidgety Pinot Grigio? He didn’t know. A beer would be good.
He was such a bum. It was a mystery what she saw in him, except he could cook. Recipes were like architectural drawings or landscape plans. Step by step and – voila – romance on a plate!
“Harry, I feel like Italian sausages on the grill tonight.”
Thank god, the pressure was off, but he still didn’t know what wine to buy.
Harry writes poetry. One, published in the Gardener’s Seasonal Daily, was about planting seeds.
But Harry had a dark side and whenever he thought of Lady Smock’s curly hair post-coitus he got upset. She had a disturbing flat spot, made so by her head crushed on the pillow, eyes open, smiling as he took her. It never perked up afterwards.
Curly twirly halos tossed
pepper-upper exhibitionist whorls
invitations to bouncing conversations
but mostly confirmation
that casual sex doesn’t show
on a bed-head.
at the back a
depressed spot but
you can’t see it.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti – Jane Morris