"I have given up on this pathetic human experience," someone calls from the midst of dark, and the birds do not scream, but they weep. The clouds are a blushing gray and ash falls from them -- the winds, yes, the winds, lift the dew from grass. They drop blood into the sea. It is a clean, empty process, of earth cleaning its children, sweeping them into disuse.
It is a dusty brick house, I rest in, and the bed is large. It is empty -- sweat gleams on forehead, hair sticks to skin, his perfume lingers. I have no lover. His name would be something beautiful.
Something, I know already. The night would make him vigorous. We hear the neighbors go into hysterics and the walls are bathe in their blood. There are quick successions of suicide rates. The sounds of miniature thunder sounds -- and then, the rains come. They come in heavy sounds. I digress:
the winds pick up and the rains are swept like music -- the husbands, they roam the island with cocks hard with temptation and the maids creamy buttocks are lifted towards their eyes. The wives say nothing and the babies scream with the birds. It seems it is all is inevitable.
To conclude: I cannot sleep.
Such an abject loneliness often strays my desire for anything. Often, I am left hollow; it is rare I am roused enough to kindle myself so swiftly to completion. After wards I am lethargic. I cannot properly speak. Limbs refuse to move. Even the mind has shut down its curious inquiries, and only a faint reminiscent buzzing remained behind. In sparingly details, it thinks an early setting of the day while John had stood in the large mirror, adjusting the tie, smooth forehead creased, fingers working the dull routine of fixing a tie. Every morning I devoted myself to this task of simple affection, however, I still laid in bed, torn between dutiful, attentive lover, and the soft focused dreams of summer heat and unsung melodies. He was having difficulty, the tie, red like fire had slid between his fingers like water; his gaze shifted towards the bed and might have asked for assistance but his tongue stays.
His eyes have not left me. Still his heedless fingers continue their task overseen. And the creases in his forehead increases slightly with distant agitation. He must return to his wife now; she will not lie in bed restlessly and will ask where he has been. Why he smells of vanilla musk and rain? And why does his skin glow softly? Faithfulness strays his wandering interest and the promising sound of children laughter stirs that inner romantic in here. He loves his wife to an extent -- but he finds himself unable to return to her love confidently. Perhaps he is just in need of a conquest and the probability of infidelity might be excused to the nights of Anna Mizo. No one is safe from her sweltering heat or the musk of her plants, nor the raging lust and madness of her residents.
"I think you should give her roses this time," I told him; facing his pensive distracted expression would be a hard task to accomplish. I closed my eyes and heard the rustle of his pants and the shifting of his presence. In the mornings he speculates this and his gaze is a clear gray upon me unlike the previous night so grieved with need we never fulfill. In the end the lofty organ in my chest is frigid and must rest in the fridge until I find use for it -- those nights, I find use for it. For hours, he pours over it weeping and sometimes lamenting and other times, his tapered white fingers stroking it delicately. Now, he lays above me and solemnly his face scowls, his beauty sours in this late morning.
"You think my wife a delicate woman?" the question is soft and just short of a rebuke.
I smile showing teeth in lined rows like deadly weapons and the blue dripping buzz of a fly enters my ear distantly. He cannot yet hear it. I want to tell him of course I thought she was. She was blue-eyed resembling stones of sapphire set above her round cheeks -- a plump woman whose bust was superior to her sagging abdomen by mere inches, her neck when decorated with jewels were cuddled by her three distinct rolls. Her hair was style in a Marilyn Monroe reminiscent though the color was copper-ginger, the mole strategically placed near her lip dashed in a brilliant shade of erotic. Despite the three inch pumps and her sculpted calves, indents formed in the kneecaps like dimples, her legs smiling towards him. Her ankles swollen from the wet season. To comfort herself, she hides in the pantry and eats whatever item she can grasp. The weight of fat hangs onto her like robes, the creaminess of her thighs ruined by the spoiled nature of their origin, the collar adorning her neck the reserves of cum she had saved from her teenage days. Her behavior could be summed us as so: sulking for days in the sunlight room surrounding by piles of wrinkled laundry, eating in the basement when her husband is asleep as the twinkle of a child's night light sounds in the night, crying when he no longer asks her to couple with him -- instead he rolls over and slips into soft dreams of a gentle lover's slopes and skin more easily explored.
Instead, I say, "of course not". Thus the conversation ends and in the future she is brought up only passively.
