So This Is Love
Jazz like smooth slippery silk, cool and warm at the same time, tripping down a naked spine. Charlie Parker's heroin laced voice like warm chocolate, the saxophone curled silver through the red pulse of the bass. And skin laid bare on soft cotton sheets. Golden in the light of hundreds of candles. Rain beats a counter-point to the smooth hiss of horsehair scrapping across a snare. Her voice is mellowed from smoke and wine as she sings. Her words half a beat behind. But it's okay, it makes you smile because you know it's deliberate. She listens to these scratchy old 45's so much she can tell you when the next catch is. But her eyes are dreamy, her breath slow and soft. She smells like blackberries and orchids. Her smile, when you tell her that, is pure sex. White, even teeth, full pink lips. Her eyebrow, sharp as a raven's wing, arches when she smiles like that again. And that makes you grin again, because you know she's not aware of it. She doesn't think she's beautiful and maybe to others she's not, but as she lays there, nothing but that soft sheet across her thighs, and Bird's scratchy smooth voice blending with the sound of the rain, she's the most beautiful creature you've ever seen. And you think this is part of what love's about, what love's really about. It's about alabaster skin stained gold by candle-light, and scratchy jazz 45's, and quiet off-beat singing, rain against the roof, and quirky sexy smiles. This is love.