Serotonin

Like lovers did in those days, their hands twined quietly beneath the green tablecloth. Elspeth chattered noisily next to them, a monstrous beacon on her parents radar, hiding the hands from view. A slight smile spelt out over his lips. She chewed her corn peacefully to subdue hers. He stroked down her palm and she chewed a little quicker.

The conversation was a series of gruff ornaments and twitter, for which neither cared. It was etiquette, it was required. During a lecture on the common themes of the evening newspaper, she pushed her foot between his, the warm of her leg causing him to drop his fork.
'You right son?' A slight pause:
'Yes sir, sorry, please continue.' Eyes flicker to her hands, which are fetching more water. The evening newspaper suffers a little more.

During dessert his right hand finds her knee. He etches their initials into it and hopes to see it there later. She smooths her napkin and digs her nails into his hand.

Later the women are cleaning up, Elspeth like a mad torrent of ideas, organising and sequentialising. The men sit in the front room. Hunter and hunted. He speaks first:
'I think your daughter is most charming.'
'You would say that.'
'Oh?'
'They all say that.'
'Oh.'
'What do you intend with her?'
He thinks a moment; he could fail here:
'I intend only that to which she would consent, Sir.'
'And what does that mean?'
Damn. Blown it. Recover:
'If she will have me Sir, I will gladly serve out my days to her whim.'
Ah, curled lips. Better.
'Better have some brandy then.'

Brandy puts the old man to sleep in 10 minutes. He begins to snore. She calls him from the kitchen. He stands, puts the old man's glass on the table, and let's the door catch behind him.

'Tea?'
'No thank you, Ma'am.' Ma'am puts down the kettle.
'Elspeth, why don't you show me the drawing you did yesterday?' Elspeth looks up:
'But Mama, I showed you y-'
She catches on and they exit stage right.

He moves slowly through the flickering light which pulses like a strong ether trying to hold him back.
'I traced my name on you.'
She looks disbelieving.
'Look.'
She pulls up her long skirt, faint faint red marks on her skin. She looks up as he pulls up in front her. She lets her skirt down, patting off her damp hands, uncreasing her forehead. He puts a hand to her ear and cradles her head. He puts another hand to her other ear and holds her head before him. She looks out lazily, his face a warm glow. He admires her softness. Her head lolls gently. Slowly he pulls his hands onto their fingers, webbing themselves around her head. She smiles warmer still and he notes to do this again. He brings his face close to hers; oh she is so dewy! he remarks to himself, almost giggling out loud at the word. She smells of warm kitchen. His unpolished skin grazes her and she gasps, having closed her eyes and being unaware he was so close. She opens them and looks sidelong at him; he pauses his ministrations, then continues. She places her long hands on his waist and for a moment he forgets himself. Then he recalls and steps back. Confused, she reaches for him, but he stands well back from her, letting the air fall between them.
She moves to close it, but he steps again and twice shy she stops. He simply looks. For minutes, minutes bending into more minutes he looks, she displays. They study each other, not wanting to forget their forms. She pulls at her beaded décolleté. A swift ticking marks the end of each second, and still he looks. She moves her left foot; he shakes his head. She lowers her gaze along with her inhibitions and pulls at her top button 'til it slides open. Inward he gasps and makes a note to look slower.

Somehow, now, movement, touching would be inappropriate. Here they were not acting for an unknowing audience. Here they were simply acting for each other, and this, they knew, called for restraint and withholding. He dared not touch her nor she him. All he allowed himself was the searing glow of wanting bleeding from his pores, his eyes yelling themselves hoarse at her long slow body that held his gaze. She concentrated on the soles of her feet and chastised herself for not cleaning under her nails. Her soft palms pushed together and as she pulled them apart a thin thread of longing spilt onto the floor. She looked up again and caught his eyes. She closed hers, saving them for later. She opened them seconds later and caught only his wake as he breathed through the door into the night beyond them.

She watched him down the path, a soft candle glow coming from him, the one that told her he left with only one moment, one person, one thing on his mind.

From upstairs, Elspeth and Mama watched on.
'Is it always like this, Mama?' A soft grin to the darkness;
'You should only ever take it like this, dear.'

onward and upward and over and out

in fields of grey they climbed
like dreamers pursued by the dawn
with the roof of the world on their foreheads
and the pits of hell in their hearts

onward and upward in stillness
through a dark and impenetrable sheen
and a vast rolling vista of living
lay below them

from the west at the ether it rippled
to the east where the world ripped away
the great shadow of eternity lies onward
and with deep breaths of life they move on

and the last throes of life of her body
shudder recklessly up to the arc
as the last breath of water consumes her
she too climbs through grey to beyond.

the neverending story

a puckering of light edges over the hill
like a twitching bead it grows
spilling out through the veins of leaves
and in through eaves over window panes
little stirrings, the heat moving in its lightening slumber

an easterly sighs in from afar
bringing whispers of lighter times to come
the constant ocean beats over a pasty shore
and cold toes edge over the rocky fore
while birds are roused and brought out

softly beating steps on footpaths
as mothers stop to check their children's chests
rising, falling
the acrid waves of bread fly high on rooftops
with angelic wings they beat over into the dawn

the gold creeps over roadsides
where blooms are waking to its touch
and sweetly sleeping nature starts its long haul upwards
as the darkness fades away into the light

where does that black go?
it lies upon the ground for hour on hour
only to be erased as the light spreads further
like the ink from a red shirt to a white one
how does it not spread? where does it go?

like deviant wonderings
the wanderings of the gold spread
over lampshades and letterboxes
onto abstract thought and art nouveau
like a slowly, an interminable disease

then, lo! it crumbles in the west
it scuttles quick with a line of reference
down through the thickening blue
to black, which has lay in wait for hour on end
and now seizes its chance once more