Small fragments of (un)reality

Gustav Klimt, The Virgin, image reproduced from http://www.mindfirerenew.com/issue1/klimt_die_jungfrau.jpeg


Knock on the door. Softly.No answer; he must be away or perhaps hard at work, devouring some article or other, a brilliant thought.
Second knock. Nothing. But the light is on.
Maybe it’s time for surprises – nothing more certain than surprises, right siss? – the doorknob turns and he’s in there alright.
But so is she, looking over his shoulder, hands round his neck, softly yet possessively, like a snake luring its prey.
Perhaps not a good surprise.

Haagen Dazs in hand, five million calories of joy on a stick, she enters screen 2.
The perfect end to the day, a film without meaning, offering illusion quite generously, clearly unashamedly.
The tall couple sits infront of her, he making himself comfortable, she trying to juggle the coats, the popcorn, the soda.
“Would you mind helping me pull the seat down?”, she asks and smiles half angrily, half teasingly.
They watch the adverts, they laugh through the previews.
Almost half way through she feels compelled to watch them: he touches her nose, she bites her lip, they hastily smile to one another as celluloid goes on.
Little moments of intimacy shared with the audience that is there and watching.

Earlier on another knock was heard, on her door this time.
She said ‘hello’ in her usual manner – part casual, part bothered, part cheeky, with the emphasis on the elongated ‘ow’.
And it was him, after all this time, big smiles and eyes bright for meeting again.
The news, the absence, the holidays, the work stuff, her shiny new trainers, prized objects of the desire for coolness gleaming in the background. He noticed.
And that beautiful set of blue eyes,
that unmistakable laugh,
the bright mess of straw-like golden hair of his daughter, following him,
remindful of where we stand…

It’s late.
I blame vague tourist for opening up this can of worms called love, even if it’s spring that has set it on fire.
Sissoula asked me to write something straightforward: if ever I could.
You see, dystrop, sometimes it’s not just about sex…