Second Page
December 2009
City Lights
by bonita lee penn
A Short Very Short Story
The bed linens were layers of vibrant, bleeding reds staining the pinkness of her sheer nightie, sheets of red ribbons wrapping her thick brown legs, leaving the polished toes exposed to cool breezes entering through the opened window. The darkness of the winter night masquerading the early hour as much later and she lies in the bed with her eyes fixed on the distance moon reflecting the alluring brown iris and its luminous shadow tracing the diamond tear facets drawing down her cheek.
The last of her body’s tremble ceased hours ago. She remembers the magnitude of desires being pulled from within, wave, after wave, leaving her to drown in the overflow of fiery wetness soaking the bed’s red sheets. She runs her fingers over the silkiness warmth of the fullness of her body, repeating his name, to no response. Her inconsolable pleads ricocheted sharply off walls leaving the only causality the retching pain ripping her heart from its lair, and disposing it on the carpet next to the dildo that was to be a temporary fix. She moans his name; her surrounding emptiness refuses to response.
She lies and watches as the moon crosses the sky and comforts the sun, and she greets another day, stained by his absence.
Waiting in Vain
“She came here to write.” he said to no one in particular. “This is where she wrote them.” he continued to talk to the wind, as he crumbled and tore small pieces of paper from her last note, scattering them like pieces of bread leading a path back from where he came.He was focused on moving onward, intently watching the ground as it moved swiftly beneath him. The wet ground was strewn with minefields of mud puddles that splashed unwelcomed color on his white linen trousers. It didn’t matter, not this time; his need to be fresh and clean took backstage to his mission, to find her.Too many times he played the spectator, watching as women paraded in and then out of his life, not this time, not her.
His day started out effortlessly as he looked through her, as he had so often done. It was easier to focus on the impeccable fit of his tailor made white linen trousers than to fumble in his attempt to explain that it wasn’t her, it was him. The last thing he committed to was to be noncommittal. But with her he felt uneasiness. This time he wanted it to be different. He wasn’t versed in relationship communication and unlike her, the right words came uneasy, or not all at, like this particular morning.
“I’m talking to you.” she said, walking slowly towards the bedroom door, giving him time to respond, but this time he gave no response, not even his usual mumble and the door shut behind her. The last sounds he had of her were her stilettos tapping on the hardwood floor; then hitting silently on the carpet and the ring of an elevator door’s arrival and departure. That was a month ago. He arrogantly thought her anger would subside and she’d slip another poem underneath his door. A small note decorated with etchings of patience and affection, as she had done on more occasions than he should have allowed. This time he’d be ready, even if he’d only stuttered and apologized, it’d be a beginning. She always believed in new beginnings, she once believed in him.
Strangely, the muggy air after the rain seemed more like frozen ice against his body as he realized that he was in fact alone and missing someone for the first time. The last three years with her couldn’t be held together any longer with his utterances of half-hearted promises.
He smiled, thinking to himself that she’ll be here, she’ll rush back. This hallowed place in the park was where she felt her best. She used to joke this is where she came when she was trying to find the right words to reach him. She did, she reached me, but I wouldn’t let her in.
While he waited the rain started again feeling like the lash from a cat o’ nine tails against his back. He was unmoving, still there when the sun came out to dry the mud and wetness sticking like blood to his skin.
He sat in her sacred place and the words came easy this time. Words expressed in a new and tender way unfolded how much he yearned for her. He struggled to write over her fading words, but the paper was too wet to hold his words.
