Golden Tones

This was a guest post I was invited to write on TheNakedConvos‘ The Writer competition a few months back. Of the themes available, I chose to write on The Silence and this is what came of that…

______________

Her big brown eyes do all the speaking. The lights from the flickering candles we are forced to see by dance in them as she gazes into my very soul. I can stay a million years looking into those orbs, enthralled by the sparks of emotion I see… as long as they still behold me in love. I will look away only from the pain of seeing the love… or the life… in her eyes die.

She closes her eyes and leans in. Kisses me deeply. My eyes also close so I may focus on the pleasure I intend to derive from my other senses. Our tongues do a slow dance and in the twisting and twirling, I tell her things she can sense only through her heart. On her lips and tongue, I taste the wine she had been drinking since after dinner, and am satisfied to take of her my own sips now, delightfully spiced with the restlessness I know is building up in her as she drinks me in in return. The taste is exquisite.

We come up for air. I gulp in deep breaths of the air that is now saturated with her and savour her very essence. Her scent is a symphony. The remarkable mixture of places she has been today, the soap she has used and perfumes she has worn, the aroma of the freshly opened bottle of wine, and even a few whiffs of the man she has been kissing only moments ago now come back to me. All together with that beautiful solo smell that is unmistakably her.

I am still savouring the smell, eyes closed, when I sense her leaning forward again. My olfactory senses go into overdrive as my nose is buried in her long luscious hair. All hers. She kisses my neck. Slowly. Sensually. Her body kisses are whispers of undecipherable wonders to my spirit. The whispers trail down to my naked chest and begin to vibrate softly as they go along. She hums as her full lips linger on my extra-perceptive skin leaving a trail of tingling pleasured spots. I throb with pride. I taught her that trick.

I can feel sweet heat emanate from every touch point between our two now highly sensitive bodies. Her ongoing kiss-trail. The spots where her fingers brush over my skin as her palms seek support. The spots where her knees sink into our sheathed bed just outside my thighs. A soft sheen is building all over our bodies from the combined heat from within us and from without, no thanks to the power outage. Neither of us act like we notice the perspiration, but I do. I notice everything. Well, almost everything.

Her vibrating whisper-kisses are giving pleasure to my navel when she suddenly pauses and raises her head sharply. My eyes flash open in alarm but before I raise my hands to ask why she has stopped, I discover why. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the flashing light of what must be her cell phone. My mind wonders briefly at how I did not sense the vibrations the phone is undoubtedly making through my butt embedded in the mattress not far from it. She reaches to answer it as I conclude it must be how tuned into our passionate embroilment I had been.

She sits on the edge of the bed, her back turned to me, as she speaks into the mouthpiece and as always, I wonder how beautiful her voice must sound. I equate it to all the most beautiful sounds my brain is able to recall from before the illness.

Mother’s voice.

The chimes of the grandfather clock from the hallway.

The classical music of Mozart and Beethoven that poured out of grandpa’s gramophone.

The choir of angels singing in the birth scene of that Jesus of Nazareth movie that showed on tv repeatedly every Easter and Christmas.

In my dreams, she is a chorister in that choir.

She realizes she has left me in the dark and turns to face me so I can be a part of the conversation she is having. I focus on her luscious lips…

“He’s here right now and is privy to everything I’m saying to you. Mr Samuels, quit pestering me. I love my husband very much and will never engage in any sort of ‘friendship’ with you. The only time we shall relate, it shall be strictly professional or I shall file a sexual harassment report at the office, do you understand me? Now goodnight. You’re interrupting the lovemaking between my husband and myself.”

And without even bothering to hang up, she throws the phone unto the reading chair in the corner.

“Now where were we?”

With a broad smile on my face, I point towards my naked, reawakening member and secretly hope that Mr Samuels can hear everything that is about to go down. I may not be able to take part in that particular pleasure, but I will be the one orchestrating all the rhythms and melodies for our one-man audience if he has made the mistake of staying on.

And it would be my pleasure.

For Worse

Today is Short Story Day Africa. I thought I’d write my shortest piece of fiction yet. Enjoy…

*  *  *     *  *  *     *  *  *

The tears begin to flow profusely again. The Joe in the photograph is gone forever. And nothing can ever bring him back.

Sitting at the edge of the small bed, Nneka hugs the gilded frame closer to her chest. As she tosses her head back, another sob racking her frail frame, a tear drop splashes down on one of the golden-hued wooden leaves that entwine the photograph. She holds the photo away for a minute, staring through her tears at the features that grace it and another barrage of tears run rivulets down her face.

The fingers on her left hand trace the arms that encircle her in warm embrace in the photograph. The photo blurs into the background as she focuses on the fingers and wrist of her left hand and the burnt, leathery skin that stretches across them. The sun streaming in from the window glistens off the engagement ring and wedding band that adorn her ring finger and the memories come flashing back fast.

Hearing the plane come closer and closer. The loud crash. The front of the house caving in. The heavy smoke. The leaping flames. Slowly clambering over the rubble toward the windows. Giving up. Joseph leaping through the smoke, wrapping her in the curtains and lifting her. His screams as he carried her out of the crumbling building through the flames.

Through the fresh tears, she whimpers…

“Come back to me, Joe. Come back.”

Silence.

And then…

The groan behind her has her spinning around fast. The sound is a welcome, long awaited relief; a deviation from the deathly silence that has for the past two weeks emanated from the immobile, charred frame of her husband.

He will never speak again, not audibly. The fourth degree burns that cover his lips, face and over three-quarters of his body would no longer allow that and many other bodily functions. Much cauterization and excision has been carried out to keep him alive and he is now but a writhing mass of broiled flesh and limb stubs.

Still, she has sworn to herself that she will never leave his side. The fire that has done the worst to his body has only fueled the one in her heart that burns only for him…

And always will.

“For better. For worse. Till death do us part”