Hollow, clammy flesh on the bone begging for expiration, as the ceiling fan goes 'round and 'round. Click click click. All things rasping and barely rising and falling and even the dance of wispy hair is painful.
Her lips are too parched to come together, to wet the tongue filled with sand, to cool the throat that is on fire.
And always relentless sunlight through the blinds.
On shoulders at swimming pools and young men and times when she remembers being happy and young. Dances with soldiers and radios and sewing doll clothes.
* * *
Anne's desire for him was a blinding fire in her head.She admired in the mirror the way her own breasts showed through the white nightgown. She wanted him to see her, to touch her. Staring up at the ocean of a ceiling. The sleeping fan.
(At once primal and pure: kneeling in front of her to wipe the wine stain from her lips. Gently, one hand holding her chin. The sensuality of his fingers touching her teeth. When his job was finished, he kissed her, deeply.)
And, o! To be swallowed, eaten up completely by him. To exist no more out of too much love.
Still young and simmering and firm. Aching and cooling in his mouth, on his skin.
Talking, laughing, being happy. Happiness in the modulation of his voice. Those crevices where sunlight cannot peer and where moonlight and thunder have their say.
All of it washing over them, click click click, to expiration.
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