Verite's dream

Verite closed the last page of the small book, slowly ran her finger
across the cover, then wiped a small tear from her face. Always sad to
finish, she thought, especially with such a satisfying ending. The
young virgins finally embrace and come together. But we know that
doesn't usually happen .
It was two in the afternoon and she hadn't yet left her bed. What had
everyone been doing today, she wondered. What had they eaten? Never
mind, its Sunday. After all she'd only woken at midday after being up
so late, again. How much longer can I keep this up, I wonder, sharing
my nights with someone else, a life somewhere else, that doesn't belong
here, in my reality. The story's ending had reminded her of Louis, who
wasn't afraid to express himself. She had liked that the most, his
frankness about everything. Even the trivial things: cooking, finding
things for his young child, and especially when he read her poem.
She loved to speak to a man who was not afraid to talk of his feelings,
his failings, and mostly of the effect that she had on him. It was not
about her power, more about the almost tangible feeling in the space
between them.
She thought about him sitting down somewhere, reading the poem she had
sent, and the piece of story she had begun in an effort to express
physical sensations on paper. His face would change from one of
openness, to either a frown or laugh, depending on how he might
interpret her words. Words, the power at her fingertips, or with her
voice, to bridge the space between two people. Now that is the sort of
power that excited her the most.
He would be interrupted by the telephone, or the cry of a child, but he
would not rise from his seat until he had completely digested everyone
of her words. Feeling slightly warm inside, as though he had finished a
glass of wine, he would be brought suddenly back to the reality of his
surroundings. Only to continue through the day with a small smile
appearing every time he remembered the words she had used.
Verite rolled over in the bed and breathed in her scent from the pillow
she had not left since last speaking with Louis. To leave this place
would be to break the spell she had conjured up for herself. He can
continue with the reality of life, but she would only rise from this
half slumber to sit down, reach for her pen and paper and begin another
carefully selected and arranged group of words. Arranged with an image
of him in her mind, she took each word, plucked like a ripe peach,
still heavy with morning dew, from a heavily laden tree, and placed
them in the basket that was her story.
Play with me tonight, she called to him, play with me and take me from
the light of day back into the world she had created especially for
them. Words of poetry or prose, all held the same fascination for her.
Later she would read again the poems he had written in a language he
was not born to, and wonder how they would sound had they been created
in his own. She knew that she would still be able to understand them if
he would read them out loud for her.
He will come back, she knew, for they had only touched each other at
the surface. Like a breath of a lover approaching behind you in the
dark. There was still much more to know of him , she knew, more to tell
him also , of her. She anticipated in her mind. It would be taste by
taste, one mouthful at a time, a bite of the peach, a sip of the wine,
and stopping only to wipe or kiss the juice escaping from the edge of
the lips.

fin