An Episode

She opened the door slightly, her hair up and she was leaning through

the brief gap in the

doorframe…

she smiled and opened it up wider, revealing that she was wearing a

robe.

She walked slowly towards the mirror, the robe gaping in parts…

tiny glimpses

of a Christmas package being slowly unwrapped…he sat on the

edge of the bed,

saw her and her reflection intertwine like an upside down v

as she applied colors and powders…she would

occasionally glance at him and raise an eyebrow. 

It was like a dare. 

Somewhere inside of him,

like a click of metal upon metal, a spark bloomed

into a pilot light blaze.

Outside the bathroom in the expansive space some music played,

too low to

hear the words but enough to be noticeable.

One table lamp was on,

lighting up a tiny corner of the room where

the rest of it was in a glow

from the late afternoon sun spilling in from the

large window. 

Near the bed two candles burned in tiny whites and yellows. 

The space felt like a spa and her proximity

made it even more languid…

her movements were liquid, like she was underwater…

from his view she fluttered in and out of the scene,

a ballet of preparation…

and he caught parts of her scent, her lotions and perfume. 

She smelled clean, the entire room felt showered and

scrubbed and her glances were

lingering upon him as much as

the soap sensation he inhaled.

She came to him and leaned down to kiss him. 

A demure bit of a hint. 

Something portending.  The whiff of copper

before a lightning strike.

Her mouth was warm and relaxed…it was a greeting. 

But her eyes had been open and they

squinted something more inviting…

a bit more promising.

If she was a recipe she was the

type handed down from a southern

grandmother’s hand…old school

cursive with lard as a critical

ingredient and a loving amount of

measurements poured out from

memory versus math….

the heft and feel of flour or a rolling pin

that had seen its days…

perfection handed down via generations,

never skimping or deviating but

rather just evolving slowly until

the taste on the tongue was perfection…

each and every time.

If she were to be a rain storm she would

be in August, in the heat

of summer after an oppressive afternoon

with low dark rumbles

starting to echo in the outskirts of an evening…

a relief effect of

anticipating the cooling impact upon arrival…

when the lights in

the house blink on and off due to the interruptions…

the flash-bulb moments and the near immediate thunder…

concussive….

the smell of the rain and the noise on the roof…

you felt safe inside but were amazed at the

rawness outside…

and when you slowly succumbed to your

bed the splashing and

winds became calming…

white noise that helped you to sleep.

If she was a season she would be Fall…

mercurial, at times like an

Indian Summer, blooming after a

season of heat and signaling the

temperate ways of cool mornings

yielding to warm afternoons…

they type of day you want to start

with in bed, layers of covers

and then emerge to a gauzy fog

only to have the sun burn through it…

and be warm upon the bricks of a stoop…

meanwhile,

the colors exploding around you,

twirling to the ground

and a thousand versions of

red and orange ultimately

turning to the color of her brown eyes.

He leaned back on the bed,

smelled the candle

burning its scent into the air,

the afternoon yellowing

through the window and the soft music playing.

He had found perfection.