She’s thinking of ‘nap-time’ back in kindergarten. In the morbidity of her morning mind, she’s picturing the scattered bodies, this bloodless battlefield, neatly cold, no one touching. She would drag her soggy brown mat and align it carefully at the edge of them all. In furtive glances, she would watch her world forced horizontal, everyone leveled across the scratchy school-gray carpeting, each captured still in the frame of their mat. Her once animated friends suspended, caught in their fall, submitted to a will greater than theirs.
How she resented this infringement on her playtime. How she hated everyone’s complicity in this utter waste. But she lay yielded to authority too, hoping, if not trusting, that It knew better than her.
Now she has only the paralyzing power of her uncertainty to answer to.
If you opened your eyes now, you would see her there, lying close to you. A frayed silken cape of black hair splatters down her head and onto where her spine starts, an arrow to her legs. The backs of her legs are soft and white, swelling at the top, a pulp of flesh you could really sink your teeth into.
Thick mossy curtains at your window hide the light of her legs, hide their darkness too.
Hide that shadow of a braided line at the back of her knees, her knees burrowed into the mattress. If you roused yourself now, you’d barely be able to make them out. These reversed protrusions, these dips dividing her at her bends. She’s thinking of those wisps of valleys now, and other wisps too, and she aches for them to be touched, tarnished by hands other than her own.
Her nightie has hiked up high on her thighs. She’s left it there, pleasing breeze from the fan on the naked pear curves of the beginnings of her ass. Her panties are lost, set free somewhere in your room, the way they like to be. She’ll have to look for them before she leaves.
She would wake you up but she doesn’t know you well enough. And if she knew you well enough, maybe she wouldn’t have this need to wake you up.
She flips onto her back finally, tries to relax her mind, tries to decide what to do, but she is trapped in the periodic circles of the ceiling fan.
If maybe she should just get up and take a shower, but if the noise would wake you up, if she was ready to abandon your possibility in the next minute just yet, if she should wake you anyways and ask for it, or just initiate and hope that you follow, or hope that you would tell her if you minded, if you would mind or not, if she could just read your sleeping mind, if you were too tired, if she cared to find out, if she would deal well with a rejection, no matter how small and impersonal, if she should make no choice and continue to lie here like this instead, thinking these thoughts, or maybe even try to fall back asleep, or maybe just give up on sleep, give up on it all, and get up and go take a shower.
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