More from ‘Water and Dust’.
Marc looked back at Brendan, whose eyes were still on the sky.
“What?”
Brendan indicated back onto their land with his head. “This way.”
As the dogs settled back to their post, Marc followed Brendan into the trees, he said, “We should be getting back.”
Without turning, Brendan said, “For who?”
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
Been a full on week, and mostly dancing related; Tuesday teaching kicked off again, as did the Wednesday night class I go to, followed by a meeting on Thursday and a very late night dem-ing and helping run a ceilidh at a local barracks on Friday.
So today have done little that is productive. Met up with a friend for coffee, and watch Red Road in the morning on LoveFilm instant. Initially had it on my list because Tony Curran is in it (oh man, he’s lovely to look at, and on a fraction less shallow scale, impressed me as Vincent van Gough in Doctor Who and King Stephen in Pillars of the Earth), but came away exceedingly impressed with Kate Dickie’s (who I knew I’d seen before but it took a net search to realise she is Lysa Arryn in Game of Thrones performance, and curious about director Andrea Arnold’s other films. Atmospheric, beautifully made and gripping (and just to show what a one-track mind I have, it also featured a very compelling sex scene, which I suspect one wasn’t meant to find hot, but, well…Tony Curran as I said.)
(Tangentially, I wonder what Arnold was trying to say with the many inclusions of random and not so random shots of dogs – I have my thoughts but that would give away the ending a bit much and it works better not knowing where it’s all going. Update: Interesting review (with spoilers) here that theorises not only on the dogs but the use of other animals in the film.)
But, now for some more sentences.
Brendan reached out to Marc’s shoulder, brushing over his skin, frowning as his fingers found the scratches. “You’re hurt.”
Marc’s eyes fell to Brendan’s fingers on his shoulder. Holding the rifle and the lantern, Marc couldn’t touch him back. He shrugged. “Just scratches.”
“Still…”
Brendan’s gaze shifted up to the night sky. Marc followed it. In their hurry, they hadn’t noticed the moon, not quite full, hanging in a cloudless sky.
Brendan grinned. “Now there’s a thought.”
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
Once more, a double hit for the day I missed.
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.”
–
TBC
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
She curls her finger around, so the flat of her nail runs smooths across his nape. He exhales, and seems to relax, as if anticipating that she’ll stop.
That makes her smirk.
She turns the nail again, now so the point is pressed down, a tiny furrow forming in his skin as she draws it down to his collar. When she crosses it over the vertebra where his neck bends, the bone hard under her touch. And as she brings it back up again, he’s panting, low enough that only she can hear him.
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
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.
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
He gasps, and stumbles forward, only catching himself just in time before his face hits the glass beneath. Out of the corner of her eye she sees his fingers curl up, slowly, insect-like, now gripping the wood of the case below. Once more she grins, and swirls her finger tip up back along his neck. The fine hairs there brush against her skin. She hears him whimper, and the sound breaks the quiet air so much that only now, she looks around. Has anyone seen them?
–
Continue
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
Since I missed yesterday, you get a double hit of sentences today!
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.
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
By the time they have looked at all the cases on the walls, at least five people have come and gone from the room, all showing stern interest but not grasping what he does about the paintings. She smiles; they still have the upright cases in the centre to pour over.
When he bends down, grinning at the lid of a tiny oval box – black lacquer, bright with green and soft pink – the collar of his shirt slides back, revealing the nape of his neck. The hairs on the back of her own raise. She catches her breath. It is smooth, pale, and elegantly elongates as he cranes forward even further for a closer look.
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
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.
–
Continue
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
He’s up so close to the glass that his breath fogs a tiny patch; a spot of frost on the clear pane. She smiles at the focus of his gaze on the water colour displayed in the case, protected from his intensity and his undoubted desire to touch and feel the brush strokes.
“These are amazing,” he breaths.
She responds in a whisper. “Yes.” She returns to looking at the painted roses and the snow drops, aware as ever of the orbit of heat emanating from his body.
Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.
