butterflies
retreat into wings
a net of colours
She sits at an ornate wrought iron table in a railway station restaurant. Her chair, the same design, was uncomfortable. She would not be staying long. At the next table a model-type young man, neatly packed into tight fitting designer jeans, reads a letter. Lips closed, what he reads makes him smile. Folding the letter into the new creases, he replaces it in an ornately designed, paint coloured envelope. Then, looking up, he smiles somewhere in her direction. Caught off guard her cheeks transform into rouge coloured heat. Looking as if she were not looking, eyes slightly puckered, lips moistened, she sips her hot coffee. Too quickly, a single stick chocolate biscuit is unwrapped. Her lips combine to shape the centre of a blatant sexual metaphor. The tips of her thumb and first finger melt into darker colours.
her skin her hair ...nothing the same now ...large eyes larger
Rummaging in her handbag for a tissue wipe, she also reapplies unneeded lipstick with speedy expertise. She is beginning to sweat.
Far away, the faintest of train beats. Forgetting the coffee is tongue-burning hot, she swallows too much. Her eyes start to water.
far away
station music fades
an unclear song
Noisily, the chair scrapes the mock marble floor. With a wet-eye, somewhat gigolo and swift glance back at the model look-alike, she rises and, her leather case gripped firmly, softly exits.
her warm breath
the air between them
and cool swing of hips
retreat into wings
a net of colours
She sits at an ornate wrought iron table in a railway station restaurant. Her chair, the same design, was uncomfortable. She would not be staying long. At the next table a model-type young man, neatly packed into tight fitting designer jeans, reads a letter. Lips closed, what he reads makes him smile. Folding the letter into the new creases, he replaces it in an ornately designed, paint coloured envelope. Then, looking up, he smiles somewhere in her direction. Caught off guard her cheeks transform into rouge coloured heat. Looking as if she were not looking, eyes slightly puckered, lips moistened, she sips her hot coffee. Too quickly, a single stick chocolate biscuit is unwrapped. Her lips combine to shape the centre of a blatant sexual metaphor. The tips of her thumb and first finger melt into darker colours.
her skin her hair ...nothing the same now ...large eyes larger
Rummaging in her handbag for a tissue wipe, she also reapplies unneeded lipstick with speedy expertise. She is beginning to sweat.
Far away, the faintest of train beats. Forgetting the coffee is tongue-burning hot, she swallows too much. Her eyes start to water.
far away
station music fades
an unclear song
Noisily, the chair scrapes the mock marble floor. With a wet-eye, somewhat gigolo and swift glance back at the model look-alike, she rises and, her leather case gripped firmly, softly exits.
her warm breath
the air between them
and cool swing of hips
by Stanley Pelter
Claypole, Lincolnshire, England
first published in past imperfect, 2004
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