[-66-]
Fiction written whilst waiting for class to start. An elaborate apology, if you will. And a description of what was keeping me awake.
In autumn, dawn-weak light casts long shadows like fading bruises.
Kaelin traces scar tissue with the soft point of her fingertip, slow, careful, and makes her way downward to where Shellby’s lashes lay like frost, pale and shivering in the strange half-light.
There is heat only with the imagined press of their bodies. Cold air slices in from the edges of the bedding, and at this hour there can be no exchange of kisses. They share only soft sounds, softer whispers, and the knowledge that the sun will rise ever higher and the naked ground will reveal itself from beneath the leaves.
In autumn, night air crowds in and clothes become a burden.
The dense heat carries the scent of summer rotting away, and with it nostalgia, long-forgotten memories creeping up from the gloom. Slowness reigns and silence beckons. To move too quickly is to court exhaustion. To speak beyond shuddering whispers and sighs will shatter glass. The aging shadows are deep, like the curve of Shellby’s back as she arches, beautifully, into Kaelin’s careful words, soft murmurs which fade to softer moans.
In winter, noon snow skitters over stone. Storefront banners snap as raucous knots of children run past. The sky is a stretch of blue fading only at the horizon. The sun is a white needle. Kaelin has gone to- to do something. Her attention on her schoolwork, Shellby lights another cigarette and wonders how she can fit two seasons into three paragraphs.
Breathing out in a quiet cloud of smoke, she whispers; "I'm sorry the phone fell off the hook last night. I'm sorry I couldn't answer your call. I did what you asked, though, baby. I did it until I fell asleep despite."
She doesn't say aloud the 'I love you' she thinks, internalizing it in a slow breath of nicotine.
Autumn and Winter make her hope for Summer.
In autumn, dawn-weak light casts long shadows like fading bruises.
Kaelin traces scar tissue with the soft point of her fingertip, slow, careful, and makes her way downward to where Shellby’s lashes lay like frost, pale and shivering in the strange half-light.
There is heat only with the imagined press of their bodies. Cold air slices in from the edges of the bedding, and at this hour there can be no exchange of kisses. They share only soft sounds, softer whispers, and the knowledge that the sun will rise ever higher and the naked ground will reveal itself from beneath the leaves.
In autumn, night air crowds in and clothes become a burden.
The dense heat carries the scent of summer rotting away, and with it nostalgia, long-forgotten memories creeping up from the gloom. Slowness reigns and silence beckons. To move too quickly is to court exhaustion. To speak beyond shuddering whispers and sighs will shatter glass. The aging shadows are deep, like the curve of Shellby’s back as she arches, beautifully, into Kaelin’s careful words, soft murmurs which fade to softer moans.
In winter, noon snow skitters over stone. Storefront banners snap as raucous knots of children run past. The sky is a stretch of blue fading only at the horizon. The sun is a white needle. Kaelin has gone to- to do something. Her attention on her schoolwork, Shellby lights another cigarette and wonders how she can fit two seasons into three paragraphs.
Breathing out in a quiet cloud of smoke, she whispers; "I'm sorry the phone fell off the hook last night. I'm sorry I couldn't answer your call. I did what you asked, though, baby. I did it until I fell asleep despite."
She doesn't say aloud the 'I love you' she thinks, internalizing it in a slow breath of nicotine.
Autumn and Winter make her hope for Summer.