The morning began like all the others. The covers tossed
from her warm body with a single flick of her arm. She actually liked
it that way. The sudden shock of cold awakened her senses and made
her feel alive. She placed her feet on the floor and rose.
Her body accepted the chill as if it was a second skin. Reaching
out for the caress of it, gooseflesh appeared over her naked form.
A slow smile rose on her lips as she watched herself rise and begin
the morning routine. Such comfort was the normality of it all.
The opening of the window, the drawing back of the shades, even the crack
in the blinds of the neighbor who she knew enjoyed her dressing regime
as much as she.
Her hair was not long, she liked it that way. Free and bouncy
against her neck. She lifted it and quickly caressed her scalp with
manicured nails. The laugh that always elicited from her felt good.
Her lungs reaching out for the air and the sound of her own voice raining
over the rooms silence. Her feet carried her across the room
to where she began the slow dance of awakening and the gentle coaxing
from her lurid dream state into the awareness of the day.
She reached high above her head, and pulled down the crimson silk scarf.
It was an odd habit, she knew that, but she didn't care. It too made
her feel alive and much loved as the silk flowed around her body
in the movements of the dance. She turned then from the window, the
back was always her favorite part of a woman’s body. Long and
unbroken, the lines reminded her of a waterfall spilling over the curve
of her shoulders. The gentle valley of her spine parting the two
sides in the gentle womanly curves was most alluring. She watched
herself in the mirror, the blinds always opened fully at this point as
the neighbor pretended to innocently carry on his own daily schedule.
She could almost feel his eyes on her. It had ceased being
sensual long ago, and now was only one more part of her morning.
She turned with a smile just thinking of it.
Today it was different. Today the blinds remained closed.
She arched a brow, wondering about that for a moment, but hardly
let herself dwell on such a small detail. Her eyes took in
the large tree standing outside her window. Funny how the mistletoe
clung to the branches. The tree was stark and barren, except for the clump
of green. The parasite, able to drink the green from
the tree and flourish, even as the host gave up its own life.
It was just then that she heard a click. Barely perceptible
in the stillness. She didn't turn, but waited like some marble
statue. The scarf draped languidly over her shoulders and down
her back.
It seemed such a little thing, that feather light touch on her neck.
Perhaps it was just a breeze lifting the scarf and replacing it delicately
back. She hardly felt the attachment, the world was sent
into a dreamlike place in a slow swirl. Was she falling?
She could hardly tell. Yet there was something hard now, hard
and warm against her. So warm. Her body was cloaked by the
warmth, encompassing and filling and yet emptying at the same instant.
She felt the transfer of life into life, she could feel each drop of her
existence as it flowed from her in a steady gift. She was powerless
to stop it, but would she if she could? The hands that caressed her
felt magical, insistent, deathly. The branch outside fell suddenly
in a great crack to the ground, the weight of the mistletoe too much for
the tree to support. Within the walls, a soft thud echoed the
sound outside. A woman lay on the soft carpet, a crimson scarf her
only covering.
Funny how nature imitates life.
---<- © Marsha (Chantaclair Rose) Steed
