Lydia inhaled the night air and smiled. Their campsite nestled in the greenery with importance, as if Mother Earth cradled a flawless gem.
"Are you hungry?" Chase said.
"Starving." She kneeled onto the blanket and leaned forward, exaggerating her cleavage. "Not necessarily for food."
Chase grinned. "Wait. One more thing." He flicked a switch near the willow's trunk.
Tiny lights illuminated the brush and branches above her, duplicating a spray of stars. She felt overwhelmed by the night's magnificence, by Chase's creativity. But once his tongue touched her earlobe, she remembered why they belonged together.
Chase's firm body enveloped her, and he gently kissed her breasts, stomach and abdomen, lingered awhile between her thighs--brought her somewhere euphoric.
* * * *
Sometimes people can see me. I've been described as a shadow, a blur, a fog, a glimmer, an obscure pattern in the air and most displeasing, a hallucination. These terms do not explain me. I exist yet I have no physical proof.
My land bears few remnants of its history. The pond my family chipped ice from throughout winter has reduced. Our henhouse, once bustling with chickens and roosters, now shelters automobiles. And Miss Effie's fertile vegetable garden sprouts a variety of plants, none fit for consumption. I see Miss Effie's sturdy disposition within each strong stem; I am her guardian.
Normally, the color of love is bright pink with shards of pastel blue. Add lust and the blood of grapes, and it becomes thick veins of clear reds, magentas and cobalt, tangling along with flesh, as they do now, below.
Wedded bliss--I wouldn't know. They talk and laugh, and she braces on her back, hoping to convince the seed of her lover to swell her womb. She has broad ambitions. We both do. |
