(no subject)
Pondering the enigma which was the curious compatibility of the smells of bleach, pine, and lemon, Elan sat on the couch ignoring his reading. It was an odd affair, truly, the delicate ménage à trois of bleach, pine, and lemon. Brutal, efficacious bleach, stern and rough-handed, caustic to eyes and nose, dominates the relationship, but as an undertone. Lemon, while acerbic at times, possesses a sweetness which was delicately counterbalanced by her lover pine, whose sharp, poignant odor naturalized them when they lay in fuming union with one another, triune lovers, mating in delicate wisps.
Laying forgotten on his lap was a copy of Shakespeare's Coriolanus. He had found this scene particularly interesting and had been lost in a re-imagining of the scene. There dark Volumnia, her accouterments pinned and placed, the powerful mother who dominated her son, sat upon the end table by the telephone. Across from her the retiring and cool Virgilia, whose chill veins could not warm the blood of her husband, sat upon the coffee table next to the books piled there. Elan sat, watching them closely as they discoursed.
"If my son were my husband, I should freelier rejoice in absence wherein he won honor than in the embracements of his bed where he would show most love." Elan frowned at Volumnia's statement. He could see Virgilia's nimble fingers drawing the thread upwards.
As they continued, he grew more and more irritated with Volumnia and stretched forth his hand to interrupt them, but then the gentlewoman walked in through the kitchen door and interrupted, snatching their attention. Rolling his eyes, he twisted his lips.
Virgilia exclaimed, "His bloody brow? O Jupiter, no blood!"
At this, Volumnia tossed her hair, and Elan could smell hints of cinnamon, perhaps apples, no no, the smell was far too sharp, acrid, but not unpleasing--the smell of bleach, lemon, and pine. Ah, those most delicate of lovers, now consummating their love upon the kitchen floor he had cleaned.
This thought perturbed him, but he dismissed it as he doubted their gaseous copulation could muss the floor.
Laying forgotten on his lap was a copy of Shakespeare's Coriolanus. He had found this scene particularly interesting and had been lost in a re-imagining of the scene. There dark Volumnia, her accouterments pinned and placed, the powerful mother who dominated her son, sat upon the end table by the telephone. Across from her the retiring and cool Virgilia, whose chill veins could not warm the blood of her husband, sat upon the coffee table next to the books piled there. Elan sat, watching them closely as they discoursed.
"If my son were my husband, I should freelier rejoice in absence wherein he won honor than in the embracements of his bed where he would show most love." Elan frowned at Volumnia's statement. He could see Virgilia's nimble fingers drawing the thread upwards.
As they continued, he grew more and more irritated with Volumnia and stretched forth his hand to interrupt them, but then the gentlewoman walked in through the kitchen door and interrupted, snatching their attention. Rolling his eyes, he twisted his lips.
Virgilia exclaimed, "His bloody brow? O Jupiter, no blood!"
At this, Volumnia tossed her hair, and Elan could smell hints of cinnamon, perhaps apples, no no, the smell was far too sharp, acrid, but not unpleasing--the smell of bleach, lemon, and pine. Ah, those most delicate of lovers, now consummating their love upon the kitchen floor he had cleaned.
This thought perturbed him, but he dismissed it as he doubted their gaseous copulation could muss the floor.