The Calling – Could It Be Any Harder
It’s late August, somewhere between dusk and dawn. We’re on the beach. Alone. Earlier someone thought it was a good idea to throw some intoxicating leaves on the fire. Guitar strumming drifted into smoke-fuelled dreams. Gentle waves lapped against the beach. Sleep came.
When we woke everyone else had gone.
The sky is clear. Midnight blue impregnated with milky whiteness. A shimmering wake of translucent splendour. Beside me on the blanket you’re humming a tune. I knock it around in my head, wondering what it is, grab a handful of sand and let the grains of quartz and stone slide through my fingers. It’s difficult to focus, but I have it now. I turn onto my side and see your smile. The embers glow orange, lighting up your silhouette, giving your dark hair a burnt scarlet outline.
I reach out and trace your profile with my finger. From the edges of your fringe, down to the curve of your impish nose, lingering over the fullness of your lips and richness of your mouth. Onwards to dimpled chin and down into the sensuous dip of your throat.
Further I go drawing every last piece of you, imprinting your existence inside my head.
You stop humming and look down at me, giggle when I finish your outline at the tips of your toes. Kneeling here at your bare feet, I breathe in the still night air, mixed with salt and seaweed and something else – you.
I work my way back up, discarding layers as I go until we are naked beneath the stars and humming to a different tune.
Copyright (2018) M J Christie
First Published in Lit Up: The Land of Little Tales