It's simple really...We are the stories we tell!!!Sunday, February 25, 2007
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Meanwhile
A most joyous event. Mehndi, dholki, sangeet, friends, relatives, mithai, wine, lots of prayers, lots of wishes and a whole lot of goodness for the high-school sweethearts finally uniting after eight long years. She is very happy. So am I. And yet something clutched inside when I saw her dressed in bridal orange and red on a winter morning taking deep breaths, saying silent prayers, waiting for him. She looked like an angel - so serene, so beautiful, so lovable. Her Mum caught my cloudy eyes, as I casually strolled outside taking deep breaths myself. We hugged and cried. Just a little. Tears fell inside. For the little girls who fought over Barissta coffee and cheese toast not so long ago. Really, not such a long time ago.God bless her.
A day later and yet another bridal blush down, was dying for a whisper, a hiss from Gudia and the netizens of connectivity saw my browsing her profile on orkut. And queer, how you never look for the online counterparts, but found a picture with a footnote, "Blessed are those who have friends like these." It hit home then, she might have gone forever. Taking stock on some gigabytes and microchips away, I hope she reads this someday.
Love you babe........
For my Harpriya...
A day later and yet another bridal blush down, was dying for a whisper, a hiss from Gudia and the netizens of connectivity saw my browsing her profile on orkut. And queer, how you never look for the online counterparts, but found a picture with a footnote, "Blessed are those who have friends like these." It hit home then, she might have gone forever. Taking stock on some gigabytes and microchips away, I hope she reads this someday.
Love you babe........
For my Harpriya...
Friday, February 16, 2007
Confession
Shh... I have a new muse
Inspiration? yes, maybe
Lasting? how can it. It's but a fleeting sensation
The stars had warned about this one, the coming that is
Will I go hysterical? Hell yeah!
Sharin always does.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
A pledge of chaos
Blurred lines of shapeless forms, Chatting in the background over loud vibrations.
Sounds made with formless lips and tongues, indecipherable.
Breathless winds weaving patterns in the sky.
My head is on backward,
My throat is parched with heat.
I am dancing in your eye,
But all I am seeing is swirling sensations.
They overwhelm like bees.
I had it all figured out,
Each piece had a place in the puzzle.
So close to finding the message here,
My bottle's broken under all the rubble.
Oh! it's not all that bad
Life is a complexity of self-created mess
I'll figure it out,
I'll wade the nearly as silent storm.
But I must object, this day I must.
My few moments of self loathing!
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Locked eyes
The last few days
I have been beating the alarm,
waking up much before it goes off.
If you wake up really, really early, is it insomnia still?
I pick up last night’s unfinished story from the bed-side
for tonight there might be a different side, a different bed, a different room, house, city, scape.
As I turn on the radio at dawn,
the jockeys talk less and play better music‘cause no one’s listening,
I wish
time retards
so I can gorge on unfinished tales.
But the morning comes
sun shines
horns honk
the music is suffused with coffee-smells and cat-calls.
I negotiate a quick, shower
a cool lift in a cold car to a cool corridor – that happens to be my workplace.
Too much air-conditioning condensing cerebral cells.
I actually, really, honestly spent an hour yesterday lying on concrete behind the parking lot,
looking at the city-sky-dwellers.
This peripatetic rhythm is becoming a habit.
There is a hint of a speck of dust -the kind that speak of passage of time.
Skull & Bones?
Longing for
open greens,
spatial freedom,
falling rain and
un-interrupted access to the internet.
Or wait...don't I have all of these already...
Then maybe I'm making stories in my head,
because I know I long for that
clustrophobic lack of space,
of no green spaces,
of falling rain and
interrupted access to the internet.
I have been beating the alarm,
waking up much before it goes off.
If you wake up really, really early, is it insomnia still?
I pick up last night’s unfinished story from the bed-side
for tonight there might be a different side, a different bed, a different room, house, city, scape.
As I turn on the radio at dawn,
the jockeys talk less and play better music‘cause no one’s listening,
I wish
time retards
so I can gorge on unfinished tales.
But the morning comes
sun shines
horns honk
the music is suffused with coffee-smells and cat-calls.
I negotiate a quick, shower
a cool lift in a cold car to a cool corridor – that happens to be my workplace.
Too much air-conditioning condensing cerebral cells.
I actually, really, honestly spent an hour yesterday lying on concrete behind the parking lot,
looking at the city-sky-dwellers.
This peripatetic rhythm is becoming a habit.
There is a hint of a speck of dust -the kind that speak of passage of time.
Skull & Bones?
Longing for
open greens,
spatial freedom,
falling rain and
un-interrupted access to the internet.
Or wait...don't I have all of these already...
Then maybe I'm making stories in my head,
because I know I long for that
clustrophobic lack of space,
of no green spaces,
of falling rain and
interrupted access to the internet.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
"Such is life," He said
This one's about Parzania.
Of utter helplessness, life framed in tattered posters of what is an imitation of life.
Of being appraised of our senses – pain, hazy vision through tatters, foul sting of dead love, taste of salt laden tears and noise of fearful cries that wake you from your troubled slumber.
It was a myth for movies to well out sorrow from the deepest pores of a girl called Sharin.
She was wrong.
Godhra, Gujarat, RSS, Hindu, Muslim, Parsi… Human?
Religion – genocide?
Faith – carnage?
Of utter helplessness, life framed in tattered posters of what is an imitation of life.
Of being appraised of our senses – pain, hazy vision through tatters, foul sting of dead love, taste of salt laden tears and noise of fearful cries that wake you from your troubled slumber.
It was a myth for movies to well out sorrow from the deepest pores of a girl called Sharin.
She was wrong.
Godhra, Gujarat, RSS, Hindu, Muslim, Parsi… Human?
Religion – genocide?
Faith – carnage?
Sachar committee - Varanasi's 'Water'?
Real life, real people…Naseeruddin Shah and Sarika – all heads down!!!
Real life, real people…Naseeruddin Shah and Sarika – all heads down!!!
Rahul Dholakia...all praise, all faith, all respect, all courage!!!
Sunday, February 04, 2007
A lover's tragedy
They somehow managed to wade the night in a series of endless passions, breaking the four poster bed of the inn their liove took refuge in. With the light of day, they returned to their cottage in a cart.
After what seemed to be an age of endless bliss, the cart came to a halt, and they were woken from their love enriched slumbers by a polite coughing, from the landlord who had led the cart to their cottage. Getting out of the straw, and laughingly pulling stray wisps out of each other s hair, they thanked the landlord, with beaming smiles, then hand in hand walked down the path. As they got to the door of their own little world, he whisked her up in his arms, and carried her into the room. He was just about to put her down, when a voice from around his neck filled with the huskiness of wanton sex said "Darling, not here, put me down in the bedroom." God, was there no end, he gratefully thought, feeling himself too, ready for their love to show itself again. He carried her to the bedroom, and after lowering her gently to the floor, she flung her arms around his neck and started a kiss that would never end. They slowly peeled the loathed clothes off each other, like people peeling an orange, helping each other, until both stood naked before each other. He looked again and marveled at how lucky he was to given such a heavenly body full of so much love. She looked at him, and thought how she could never want for more, this man, so gentle, yet so powerful, who lived to give her pleasure. They sank onto the bed, finding each other, animal-like groans were soon lost in endless kisses, and the evening sun went down and filled the cottage windows with it’s red halo, surrounding the lovers with its soft beams as they gave each other every part of themselves. They spent that evening in the cottage, lost in each other, lost to world, lost, just lost, happiness seemed to shine from every room.
No body knew what happened, some say it was a faulty electric current, some a spark from somewhere caught in the thatched roof, but the cottage was found in a blazing inferno when the fire brigade arrived. Many strange stories are told about that night, and many strange things were seen.
Some say that at the height of the blaze, a couple wrapped in each other s arms were seen standing in the middle of the fire, just lost in each others eyes.
Others swore they heard a boat go by on the river, the gentle sound of laughter filling the night air.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
For what is a love story without a tragic ending! What did you guys think? Do I have the perfect formulae here??
In a pub up the river, the big old four poster bed split in two, and was never able to be used again. The landlord and landlady found the love they thought they had lost.
An old rough boatman was seen to be sobbing his heart out down by the river bank, and would never go near the river again, some say he went to find a love that he had lost, never to return.
After what seemed to be an age of endless bliss, the cart came to a halt, and they were woken from their love enriched slumbers by a polite coughing, from the landlord who had led the cart to their cottage. Getting out of the straw, and laughingly pulling stray wisps out of each other s hair, they thanked the landlord, with beaming smiles, then hand in hand walked down the path. As they got to the door of their own little world, he whisked her up in his arms, and carried her into the room. He was just about to put her down, when a voice from around his neck filled with the huskiness of wanton sex said "Darling, not here, put me down in the bedroom." God, was there no end, he gratefully thought, feeling himself too, ready for their love to show itself again. He carried her to the bedroom, and after lowering her gently to the floor, she flung her arms around his neck and started a kiss that would never end. They slowly peeled the loathed clothes off each other, like people peeling an orange, helping each other, until both stood naked before each other. He looked again and marveled at how lucky he was to given such a heavenly body full of so much love. She looked at him, and thought how she could never want for more, this man, so gentle, yet so powerful, who lived to give her pleasure. They sank onto the bed, finding each other, animal-like groans were soon lost in endless kisses, and the evening sun went down and filled the cottage windows with it’s red halo, surrounding the lovers with its soft beams as they gave each other every part of themselves. They spent that evening in the cottage, lost in each other, lost to world, lost, just lost, happiness seemed to shine from every room.
No body knew what happened, some say it was a faulty electric current, some a spark from somewhere caught in the thatched roof, but the cottage was found in a blazing inferno when the fire brigade arrived. Many strange stories are told about that night, and many strange things were seen.
Some say that at the height of the blaze, a couple wrapped in each other s arms were seen standing in the middle of the fire, just lost in each others eyes.
Others swore they heard a boat go by on the river, the gentle sound of laughter filling the night air.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
For what is a love story without a tragic ending! What did you guys think? Do I have the perfect formulae here??
In a pub up the river, the big old four poster bed split in two, and was never able to be used again. The landlord and landlady found the love they thought they had lost.
An old rough boatman was seen to be sobbing his heart out down by the river bank, and would never go near the river again, some say he went to find a love that he had lost, never to return.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Sigh.we have more....
They lay in each others arms for some time afterwards, hidden in their own green umbrella, just the two of them, locked away from the world by the whispering leaves of the tree. The sound seemed to echo the whispered words of love that had passed between the two. They lay locked close, lost in each other’s arms, oblivious to the world, then as if by mutual consent, they found each other again, their final cries as they both reached the pinnacle lost in nature’s sounds. Later, much later, walking back along the path to the cottage, picking willow twigs out of each other’s hair, he suddenly stopped, turned to her, then looking deep into her eyes said "You know, I just can’t find the words to tell you how much I love you." She sensed his struggle and kissed him gently on the lips before skipping out of his arms. "Ditto" she replied, breaking the spell that had held his speech. He raced after her, and they fell onto the soft grass, which lead to equally soft kisses. He propped himself up on one elbow, gazed into the brown pools that were her eyes "Tomorrow, would you like to take up the offer of the boatsman, and for me to row you up the river, you’ll have to act the lady and make a picnic, cucumber sandwiches etc., or perhaps we could stop at some river side pub." "The latter please, my love, after another night with you" she said with an impish giggle "I don’t think I can be called a lady." He cleared his throat, the question he had to ask. "Err, mm, perhaps in the evening we might..??"
Once they had finished and had something to eat he set off down to the boat she’d with the picnic basket packed last night. It was a long time since he had last rowed a boat, he hoped he would not show himself up too much. When he opened the boat shed, he saw the boat keeper was not the rough old man he liked others to believe. In the stern of the boat he had placed several cushions for the love of his life to rest on, above which was the most dainty sun shade.
As he put the basket in the boat and pulled it out onto the river, he noticed a bottle and two glasses hidden under one of the seats. The note said "I too was in love once." Soft old sod, he laughed. He was just getting the oars sorted when she came down the pathway, laughing as she watched his attempts to stand up in the boat to greet her. God, how he loved her, she was wearing a voluminous dress that with the sun behind her, did little to hide the body he loved and desired, her hair hung loose and her eyes shone and sparkled with love and desire. She, with his help, lowered herself into the boat. "I feel like a queen" she said. "You are. My queen" he replied, picking up the oars, he started slowly, but powerfully rowing the boat upstream.
They drifted up the river, she watched from half closed eyelids as his strong arms seemed to propel the boat like a silent swan along the river. Her beautiful Englishman, those arms which could be so soft to hold her in their love, but strong to protect her from any harm. She let her hand drop into the water making ripples as the early morning chill sent tingling up her arm. Was this a dream, would she suddenly wake up and find herself back in Boston? She looked again, no, no dream could be as wonderful as this. He rested and they drifted into the river bank, under the welcoming shade of the river side willows. "Willow trees again" he laughed, she blushed remembering with pleasure their joining under the willow tree the previous day. He saw her blush and grinned. "I’ll crack open the champers, pass it here." She leant across, their hands touching as she passed the bottle to him. Electricity passed between them and for a few minutes the drink was forgotten. How can I ever leave this woman, I can’t let her go, this is my life, he thought and so did she.
After they had both had their fill, of each other and the picnic, laying back held in each other’s arms, she tickling him under his chin with a buttercup. "Do you know, if the flower reflects on your chin, you like butter?" He twisted her over onto her back "And if you kiss my lips you love me." Seconds later there was silence as two lips proved the truth of the comment. A little while later they started to clear the picnic away, they wrote a love letter to each other on a scrap of paper, put it in the champagne bottle and sent it slowly swirling down the river. "I hope whoever finds that will be as happy as we are" she said, and his heart skipped a beat, nobody could be as happy as they were. They carried on rowing up the river until the sun started to set, and they found they were a long way from home, and no matter how much he tried not to admit it, he was tired. As the light was fading, they moored the boat outside the small river side pub, and ran for the door as a summer storm split the sky with a flash of lightning, by the time they made the door, they were both like drowned rats.
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We'll sigh some more at 10.34 hrs. tomorrow
Once they had finished and had something to eat he set off down to the boat she’d with the picnic basket packed last night. It was a long time since he had last rowed a boat, he hoped he would not show himself up too much. When he opened the boat shed, he saw the boat keeper was not the rough old man he liked others to believe. In the stern of the boat he had placed several cushions for the love of his life to rest on, above which was the most dainty sun shade.
As he put the basket in the boat and pulled it out onto the river, he noticed a bottle and two glasses hidden under one of the seats. The note said "I too was in love once." Soft old sod, he laughed. He was just getting the oars sorted when she came down the pathway, laughing as she watched his attempts to stand up in the boat to greet her. God, how he loved her, she was wearing a voluminous dress that with the sun behind her, did little to hide the body he loved and desired, her hair hung loose and her eyes shone and sparkled with love and desire. She, with his help, lowered herself into the boat. "I feel like a queen" she said. "You are. My queen" he replied, picking up the oars, he started slowly, but powerfully rowing the boat upstream.
They drifted up the river, she watched from half closed eyelids as his strong arms seemed to propel the boat like a silent swan along the river. Her beautiful Englishman, those arms which could be so soft to hold her in their love, but strong to protect her from any harm. She let her hand drop into the water making ripples as the early morning chill sent tingling up her arm. Was this a dream, would she suddenly wake up and find herself back in Boston? She looked again, no, no dream could be as wonderful as this. He rested and they drifted into the river bank, under the welcoming shade of the river side willows. "Willow trees again" he laughed, she blushed remembering with pleasure their joining under the willow tree the previous day. He saw her blush and grinned. "I’ll crack open the champers, pass it here." She leant across, their hands touching as she passed the bottle to him. Electricity passed between them and for a few minutes the drink was forgotten. How can I ever leave this woman, I can’t let her go, this is my life, he thought and so did she.
After they had both had their fill, of each other and the picnic, laying back held in each other’s arms, she tickling him under his chin with a buttercup. "Do you know, if the flower reflects on your chin, you like butter?" He twisted her over onto her back "And if you kiss my lips you love me." Seconds later there was silence as two lips proved the truth of the comment. A little while later they started to clear the picnic away, they wrote a love letter to each other on a scrap of paper, put it in the champagne bottle and sent it slowly swirling down the river. "I hope whoever finds that will be as happy as we are" she said, and his heart skipped a beat, nobody could be as happy as they were. They carried on rowing up the river until the sun started to set, and they found they were a long way from home, and no matter how much he tried not to admit it, he was tired. As the light was fading, they moored the boat outside the small river side pub, and ran for the door as a summer storm split the sky with a flash of lightning, by the time they made the door, they were both like drowned rats.
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We'll sigh some more at 10.34 hrs. tomorrow
Friday, February 02, 2007
Some more...
He drank his tea, watching as she moved like some lithe animal around the room, collecting up the hastily discarded clothing from last night’s rush to prove their love to each other. "Has this quaint place got a shower room?" she said in that accent that still sent tremors down his every fibre. Oh God, the shower room, the one place that didn’t fit in to angelic cottage. "Yes darling, it’s the third door on your left, but I should warn you" his words were lost in her kiss "Doesn’t matter" she smiled "will call you when I’m ready for you to come and scrub my back."
She left him open-mouthed, and headed for the room, sure enough there was a short scream followed by fits of laughter. He hurried to the shower room door, there she was, laughing with tears running down her face, and that look of gentle mocking, yet sure love said it all. "I tried to warn you," he said "It just doesn’t fit, does it? This lovely cottage and a bright luminous yellow shower room." He tried to keep a straight face, but soon joined her in happy peals of laughter. They fell into each other’s arms, and for a long, long moment their laughter, shower and the yellow glow were forgotten. Their love was stopped by the violent knocking on the cottage door.
He slowly released the still laughing brown eyed angel, and headed towards the front door, ready for anything.
He looked through the door, only being able to make out the dim outline of a man, what the hell, he said to himself and opened the door. "Good day sir" asked a very hard looking man "Are you the Mr. Grant who has rented this here cottage?" A wave of relief swept over him as he realized it was the boat keeper who he had first met when trying to rent the cottage. "I have the keys to the boat house, in case you and your good lady (producing the most ordacious wink) might want to take a trip out on the river." Stuttering his thanks, he took the key from the man and closed the door. As he turned, she was there, he could smell the sweetness of her and the softness of her touch, long before the softness of her lips stopped his from talking.
When they had stopped, and finally made ready, they set off together, and in hand to walk along the bank of the river. "You know" she said gently nibbling his ear "this reminds me of a certain song somebody wrote me once, about walking on a bank, and watching the sun go down." He blushed, had she seen it was a plan all the time, but her laugh soon broke his embarrassment. They stopped, resting under the spreading branches of a willow tree, hid from the world, lost in each other. And as the sun slowly started to sink in the direction of her homeland, they made love, not now as strangers, or with that urgency of their first meeting, but with the certainty that this was them, their world, and their love, that could never be beaten or hurt, it was that two were one.
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and some more, tomorrow at 10.34 am
She left him open-mouthed, and headed for the room, sure enough there was a short scream followed by fits of laughter. He hurried to the shower room door, there she was, laughing with tears running down her face, and that look of gentle mocking, yet sure love said it all. "I tried to warn you," he said "It just doesn’t fit, does it? This lovely cottage and a bright luminous yellow shower room." He tried to keep a straight face, but soon joined her in happy peals of laughter. They fell into each other’s arms, and for a long, long moment their laughter, shower and the yellow glow were forgotten. Their love was stopped by the violent knocking on the cottage door.
He slowly released the still laughing brown eyed angel, and headed towards the front door, ready for anything.
He looked through the door, only being able to make out the dim outline of a man, what the hell, he said to himself and opened the door. "Good day sir" asked a very hard looking man "Are you the Mr. Grant who has rented this here cottage?" A wave of relief swept over him as he realized it was the boat keeper who he had first met when trying to rent the cottage. "I have the keys to the boat house, in case you and your good lady (producing the most ordacious wink) might want to take a trip out on the river." Stuttering his thanks, he took the key from the man and closed the door. As he turned, she was there, he could smell the sweetness of her and the softness of her touch, long before the softness of her lips stopped his from talking.
When they had stopped, and finally made ready, they set off together, and in hand to walk along the bank of the river. "You know" she said gently nibbling his ear "this reminds me of a certain song somebody wrote me once, about walking on a bank, and watching the sun go down." He blushed, had she seen it was a plan all the time, but her laugh soon broke his embarrassment. They stopped, resting under the spreading branches of a willow tree, hid from the world, lost in each other. And as the sun slowly started to sink in the direction of her homeland, they made love, not now as strangers, or with that urgency of their first meeting, but with the certainty that this was them, their world, and their love, that could never be beaten or hurt, it was that two were one.
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and some more, tomorrow at 10.34 am
Thursday, February 01, 2007
And then....
He picked up her case, his hand not really wanting to leave hers. "Come on" he said "We’ll get a taxi, I have the loan of a friend’s cottage down by the Thames". Liar, he thought, he had spent the last two months scouring every newspaper and estate agents to find the perfect place to rent for her stay, it had cost him an arm and a leg, but for her it was worth it.
They spent the time in the taxi lost in each other. Never noticing the passing bustling London streets, until the voice of the driver announcing their arrival brought them out of their own world. She stopped and looked in wonder, it was a real picture book English cottage complete with roses round the door, through the back garden, the distant shimmer of water showed the closeness of the river.
"It’s perfect" she said, flinging her arms once more around his neck, with a kiss that made the cost and problems of finding the place all worth while. They entered through the rose shrouded door, into something straight out of wonderland. "Place your case in the end room, while I get on with the dinner" he smiled, thank goodness for his mum teaching him to cook all those years ago.
"It’s roast beef with all the trimmings, but I’m not doing Brussels sprouts, don’t want to miss those lips of yours." She laughed, the sound ran like a tinkle of bells around the room, she picked up her case and headed for the end room. He watched her move away, my God, how he loved her every move.
The last dregs of the bottle were drained, the candles splashed wax across the old table, their light ever dimming, both leaned back, content, happy to be here, together. He cleared his throat, suddenly his mouth seemed unable to work, partly due to embarrassment, partly with expectation. "Um, we’ll leave the dishes until the morning, if you like, we’ve both had a long day my love. By the way, do you want to wash or wipe?" He added as an afterthought and wished immediately he hadn’t said it. She sensed his embarrassment, and without saying a word, leant across and lightly kissed him on the lips, then taking him by the hand like a lost schoolboy, led him down the corridor into the bedroom.
"But I thought" he started to say, but his words were lost as his lips were sealed by another pair. Not a lot was said after that, well, not that can be repeated here, lovers’ words are meant for each other’s ears only.
He awoke from his sleep slowly coming to, trying to savour each last minute of what had gone on through the night, not wanting the shreds of tattered dreams to end. He reached out; the bed was still warm from her body, the sheets still crumpled from their lovemaking, his body sweetly aching from the night before.
As if in a dream, she had gently kissed his lips during his half walking period, and said she would be back soon. He rolled over onto one arm, shielding his eyes from the early morning light as it shone through the small cottage windows, dancing over the scattered clothing discarded in their haste. "Morning, darling" came a voice from the door, "I believe you English have tea in the morning?" He looked at her standing in the doorway, with the sunlight showing her outline through the dressing gown she now wore. He smiled and thought, if I die now, I’ll have never been happier.
God, he said to himself, how I love her.
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next chapter, tomorrow at 10.34 hrs.
They spent the time in the taxi lost in each other. Never noticing the passing bustling London streets, until the voice of the driver announcing their arrival brought them out of their own world. She stopped and looked in wonder, it was a real picture book English cottage complete with roses round the door, through the back garden, the distant shimmer of water showed the closeness of the river.
"It’s perfect" she said, flinging her arms once more around his neck, with a kiss that made the cost and problems of finding the place all worth while. They entered through the rose shrouded door, into something straight out of wonderland. "Place your case in the end room, while I get on with the dinner" he smiled, thank goodness for his mum teaching him to cook all those years ago.
"It’s roast beef with all the trimmings, but I’m not doing Brussels sprouts, don’t want to miss those lips of yours." She laughed, the sound ran like a tinkle of bells around the room, she picked up her case and headed for the end room. He watched her move away, my God, how he loved her every move.
The last dregs of the bottle were drained, the candles splashed wax across the old table, their light ever dimming, both leaned back, content, happy to be here, together. He cleared his throat, suddenly his mouth seemed unable to work, partly due to embarrassment, partly with expectation. "Um, we’ll leave the dishes until the morning, if you like, we’ve both had a long day my love. By the way, do you want to wash or wipe?" He added as an afterthought and wished immediately he hadn’t said it. She sensed his embarrassment, and without saying a word, leant across and lightly kissed him on the lips, then taking him by the hand like a lost schoolboy, led him down the corridor into the bedroom.
"But I thought" he started to say, but his words were lost as his lips were sealed by another pair. Not a lot was said after that, well, not that can be repeated here, lovers’ words are meant for each other’s ears only.
He awoke from his sleep slowly coming to, trying to savour each last minute of what had gone on through the night, not wanting the shreds of tattered dreams to end. He reached out; the bed was still warm from her body, the sheets still crumpled from their lovemaking, his body sweetly aching from the night before.
As if in a dream, she had gently kissed his lips during his half walking period, and said she would be back soon. He rolled over onto one arm, shielding his eyes from the early morning light as it shone through the small cottage windows, dancing over the scattered clothing discarded in their haste. "Morning, darling" came a voice from the door, "I believe you English have tea in the morning?" He looked at her standing in the doorway, with the sunlight showing her outline through the dressing gown she now wore. He smiled and thought, if I die now, I’ll have never been happier.
God, he said to himself, how I love her.
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next chapter, tomorrow at 10.34 hrs.
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