Screen scrolling… seeking those moments he slipped beneath her clothes to take her with his words.
Christmas tells … wherever are … whoever with
[Six Words – my line your mind #30]
His lines don’t show her as they used to …
She couldn’t run … that’s the thing with heels
It’s not like they’ll ever meet
He sent the emails, he knew, he shouldn’t have. Well, more in reply to hers, she’d hit him unexpectedly, early morning watching some old film starring, he can’t remember who. In truth a film he hardly saw, too caught up in chasing her with words. All he said was he missed her, her beauty her quirky ways … and that she was special, and other things he’d said before, come on, where did he go wrong?
Within the hour she’d sent back photos, quite a few, most innocent, except one or two. The pole in her bedroom, okay, he guessed she exercised, but the tattoo, the last letter of his name clipping her pantie line. Had to be seen to be believed and yes right then he wanted to. He craved to trace the inked label, even though six thousand miles away, his night, her afternoon. A bit of fun, okay, taken a bit too far, no real harm done. It’s not like they’ll ever meet.
He played it cool, sent back ‘Looking good!’
She followed up ‘I’m on my way.’
On the way to where, he grinned, so up himself he thought his words were that good. Reality sank in, bloody hell she’s coming to the UK! No worries, he thinks, how can she know where I live.
‘Hi, just arrived, I’m in a taxi, found your address on Goggle, I’ll be there in half an hour.’
Internet liaisons … be careful what you wish for and what you leave out there.
He stands a foot from the wall, illuminated by strobe lit blobs and spheres, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a cold beer. 10 pm he’d guess, summer darkness outside lures moths to flight, rhythm finds his feet, yet too soon for moves. She takes to the floor, perfection, slight yet curved, green eyed blonde, focal point of his desire. No smile, yet politely declines the handsome, or just confident, dancing with her sister or maybe a friend. He buys a second beer, a small one, returns, his space still there a few metres from her presence. 11.30 pm checks his time, no chance, better men have tried, he moves. She turns to face his walk towards her, the beat slows, traces a smile, no words, her fingers behind his neck stroke him closer, his hands on short skirted hips that sway in and not away. One song, two songs later, too soon, sibling, friend, whispers, “We have to go.” He asks to see her, she puts her finger to her lips then his, says “I fly home to Germany tomorrow” let’s go his hand and disappears. Forty years on he’s not forgot, likes to believe, she’s still dancing, has had a good life, maybe gives a thought to him…
Well Beyond This Day
He held her in the shower, the door he broke down scorched. The adjacent window breathed flames, the glass smashed on the floor. He bore the pain of seared skin, on a back she’d never see. Red machine pumped water soaked the ceiling, their smoke screen disappeared. Masked faces spared her modesty, looked on him in awe. All thought – how was he going to get out of this? Then realised, it hadn’t crossed his mind. His body given up to shield, his last breath to pray – please let her live … well beyond this day.