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| A LONELY BREATH DOTH FLOAT |
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A thick blanket of new snow has turned the expansive,
century-old park a frozen white.
On a park bench, a solitary figure with rugged good
looks, and snug in a long black coat, writes in a journal.
“They reveal to me their deepest of souls,” Peter
Straus whispered as he wrote.
A woman bundled under a long red coat and scarf walks
by. Her breath is white in the cold air. As she passes, her frozen breath
lingers.
Peter watches and writes.
“Her short, light breaths tell me her lover has been
near. His kisses are still on her lips.”
The woman passes from sight. Peter is alone again. He
writes.
“The winter freezes their most recent intimacies, like
some cryogenic dream. A woman’s heart dissected.”
Another woman, pretty, and dressed in a long yellow
coat, passes. Slow, white breaths fall from her red mouth.
Peter watches and writes.
“Dreary. Labor with out love. Her feminine warmth goes
unnoticed.”
Peter closes his journal. The world appears asleep.
He wanders away, journal in his
folded hands behind his back.
After he passes from the park, his footprints
are all that remain.
As day fades to night, and night
gives way to day, a new snow covers the foot prints.
The surreal silence is broken by the
crunch, crunch of footsteps in the new snow.
Peter’s footsteps.
As he nears his familiar bench, he
sees Sydney Moore, dressed in a long black coat, sitting on his bench, reading.
.
Peter stops and watches her breath.
Too shallow, too sporadic. Her white wisps quickly vanish.
Peter is confused. Baffled.
He walks to the next bench and sits.
He opens his journal and steals glances at
Peter writes.
“Her breath lies. Conceals. It cowers
behind her lips from the winter’s microscope.”
A woman bundled up in blue walks by.
Peter ignores her presence as he watches Sydney. Unmoving. Unflinching. Unreadable.
“Who lives without emotion? Without
–- breathing?” he wrote.
“Does a recent heartbreak make her
lips tremble? Or, is it just the frozen morning? Why does she deny me her
secrets?”
Peter focuses on his journal. He
writes like the wind.
Peter writes.
A voice startles Peter.
“Who is this crazy man sitting in a
blank white world, desperately trying to fill blank white pages?”
Peter looks up as
“What are writing about?” she asked.
“Interesting question,” Peter
replied.
As day fades to dusk, two sets of
footprints are covered by the shifting snow.
Inside Peter’s humble but well
appointed cottage, a fire burns in an old stone fireplace.
“Does recent passion make her lips
tremble? Or, is it just the frozen morning?”
She flips a page.
“Why does she deny me her secrets?”
She Paces and reads in silence a few
minutes. Her eyes devour every word.
“Do you have any wine?” she asked.
“I do indeed,” Peter replied. “Your preference?”
“White Zin seems fitting.” she replied.
Peter nods and vanishes into the
kitchen.
She removes the coat. Her arms and
shoulders are exposed. She resumes reading the journal.
Peter returns with two glasses of
wine, and hands one to
“Nice dress,” he said, admiring the
fabrics and fit.
“Thank you,”
She flips a few pages of the journal
and again begins to pace.
“Seems you prefer to make love to
women with you words,” She said.
“Not so much make love as …”
“Stand here,” she said.
Peter does as instructed. His feet
shuffle with nervous anticipation.
“In my mind, heart and soul, I have
already loved her. My five senses have devoured her pulchritude.”
“The sound of her voice has a
rhythm. Melodious. It doesn’t matter the words she chooses.”
Another sip. Her glass is now half
empty.
“Her breath skips across my skin.
Electric. Penetrating.”
She then swirls her wine, and
finishes the remainder. She hands the empty glass to Peter in exchange for his
nearly-full one. She continues to read.
“She is kinetic eye candy. Some call
it beauty, I call it enigmatic impedimenta.”
“Her scents are many. Skin. Hair.
Sweat. Desire.”
Their eyes lock.
“Her feminine sex. Her intoxicating
fragrance. Her - pussy perfume.”
After a brief hesitation, Peter
kneels in front of
His eyes follow the thin strand of
silk from the waistband to the gusset. He can see the shapes and folds of
“Her pink and perfect sex will be kept
in silk. A thousand silkworms will spin a thousand perfect strands with just
such a purpose in mind.”
As she reads, Peter inhales her
flesh, from the dimples at the small of her back, to the top of her thighs. He
blows small gusts of air over the thin gusset.
Peter moves to stand.
“Wait,”
“Her sex thrives on the kisses and
adorations of an attentive lover. And she will reward this lover with her elixir
of milk and honey that spills from some secret reservoir deep within her womb. Her
fountain of youth. Her – love butter.”
She lifts her dress again and leans
back on the table. She opens her thighs and begins to masturbate.
Her eyes are wet with downy dew. Her
fingers quicken. Peter is frozen.
When finished, she dips her wet fingers
into her wine and stirs. She takes a sip.
Then, she pours just a few drops onto
her belly. They run down and into her panties. A wink. Peter understands. He
holds his empty wine glass between
Peter drinks.
“Yet she remains illusive to my
sixth sense. A cocoon, unwilling to complete its final metamorphosis. I guess I
will never know her.”
“It’s not because I’m unwilling.
It’s because I cannot. I’m dying, Peter,” she said with sorrowful eyes.
“What?” Peter stammered. “That’s not
possible.”
“I have a concert to catch,” She
said.
She looks at the emotionally
battered Peter. She almost loves him. Her breath begins to fade again.
“Thank you for making love to me,”
she said in a broken voice.
She exits. Peter is alone.
After a few moments Peter recovers and runs to the door. He opens it. Footprints lead away from the house and into white nothingness.
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