Writings and ramblings

Once more, a double hit for the day I missed.

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Continued for here

Now she leans forward, and she looks at the black lacquer box beneath. She sees the leaves and the stem of the roses, almost a neon green against the dark lid. The roses themselves are that beautiful blushing pink – the same colour now as the skin on the back of his neck. What kind of tiny brush would have made those strokes to so perfectly capture that detail? It is not an extract vision of a flower, but it is a rendering of exquisite and tender precision.

Her thumb arcs down, and she pinches his skin, more like a nip made by a tiny, toothless kitten. He judders forward, and makes a sound that’s like purring.

Urging forward a little more, her mouth hovers just above his ear.

“I’m amazed at the work on this one,” she says. Her voice is steady, objective, and doesn’t reflect the inner knot of heat in her chest that’s formed listening, watching, and touching him. “It is just so fine and–” she pinches again. “Delicate.”

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TBC

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

Continued from here

The attendant with her glasses on a chain stands next to the door with her arms folded, but her eyes are on the ceiling. A mother and daughter are pointing at a pomegranate painting, near identical matches in their pastel twin-set and pearls. A man in tweed with a long salty beard strokes it thoughtfully as he peruses the lilacs. She knows they aren’t watching them, the young couple in the centre, the man hunched over the glass case whose chest is now rising and falling rapidly as his girlfriend’s finger tip traces his hair line, back and forth, back and forth.

She knows she can proceed anyway she wishes.

Continue

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

Since I missed yesterday, you get a double hit of sentences today!

Continued from here

The hair at the base of his skull meets in a point at the centre. He had it cut yesterday, and came back home smelling of water and air. Now she looks at the slender tip of the point, so precise and perfect, and cannot stop her hand from reaching out and, with a single finger, tracing a short line down from its apex to stroke his lovely skin.

He was scarcely moving before, but now, he stills, utterly. She can see the side of his face from where she stands. He blinks, once, then twice, long lashes closing and opening like whispering moths. Then she lifts her finger away, and he exhales. His teeth press into his lower lip, and he drums his fingers quickly against the wooden frame of the case. She smiles, and raises her finger once more. Only now she doesn’t quite touch his skin. Instead, she hovers above the line of his hair, marking out the brief arcs upwards before coming to the pointed tip. He drums again, and with feather-light touch, the pad of her finger sweeps all the way down his neck.

Continue

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.

Continued from here.

They move to the next case. Each painting is given several minutes. She doesn’t have his concentration or ability to appreciate the artistry, the skill to know how to appreciate them the way he does. When she’s had her fill of carnations and tullips, she watches him instead. Watches his lips, wet and slightly parted, his eyes peering from behind his thick framed glasses. He doesn’t even seem to notice her staring – though she knows he wouldn’t mind if he did.

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Continue

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.