She pressed me to the mahogany paneling and kissed me again, free, urgent, her breath ragged. The dense carpet of the fifth floor deadened the sound of our breathless, panting flight to our room. Swipe the card key, listen for the beep, kick the door open. She tore her head covering off then, flung the kerchief aside like a dirty dish towel, and the cascade of her hair, hidden so long from the sun, sparkled and splashed down her shoulders, her chest, her back. She shook her head and the waves washed and rippled down the silken lengths. She tore open the dress, yanked the skirt away, and revealed herself to me, and took my breath away. And I fell into her, consumed and lost. I kissed her perfect, firm neck where it met her rippling, feminine shoulders, white as milk and baby-smooth, and she moaned as I groped her recesses. Our passion drowned us, and she cried out when we came together. She could cry out, enjoy it, and reciprocate. And she did. Oh, did she.

I lay spent and panting beside her, and she tucked herself into my side, the light fading from the sky through the window-wall across from the bed. At length, I heard her soft, rhythmic breathing as she slumbered, free, perhaps for the first time in her life, and I smiled as the whine of sirens echoed in the street below.

A clanging sound disturbed me, a bell dinging loud and incessant.

The vision melted. The sounds of the train station swelled from the depths of reality, pushed aside for a moment, and I blinked and the crowd, the melee and din of the station crashed around me, a wave falling onto the sand of a beach with a thundering rush.

I blinked, and saw her, receding down the hallway toward the central escalator, and watched her fade from site. I turned to face the platforms, and the trio of flashing headlights and clanging bell announced the arrival of my commuter train, the blaring diesel blowing smelly exhaust and brakes squeaking as it ground to a metallic halt. A compression release hissed deafening over all the other sounds just as the beast settled in its place ahead of the emergency bumper.

I turned back, but they were gone, lost to the crowd in the belly of the station. And I wondered if I fantasized because her beauty beckoned and her sexuality couldn’t be concealed even in loose, drab clothes, or … ?

Or was a connection made between us? Did she hold my eyes, my soul, my desire, for that moment, and give me that silent plea … or did I dream it all?

I shouldered my backpack and strode onto the train platform.

All original content copyright J. Dane Tyler, 2008

2 thoughts on “Connection

  1. When I read “her cerulean” my head made it into “Herculean.”

    Also, there was some tense things that confused me at the beginning. I don’t know if they were intentional, specifically, “Hers flit down again, toward the ground, so no eye contact is made with strangers, with…” & “She wears the worry of the future on her visage and only some see it.”

    Also, this sentence didn’t make sense to me: “The fatigue of hard living and struggle, rising to the fore, time not yet finding its way to the present, made known in a life not quite.”

    I really enjoyed the idea presented here. It’s interesting how much can be experienced in one moment.

    Keep the fiction coming, bro.

  2. Bryce — Yeah … yeah, I messed up. I didn’t decide on the tensing until too late, fixed most, but obviously missed a couple along the way. *Sigh* Dorkisms; will I ever overcome them?

    Thanks for the heads-ups. I’ll fix. 🙂

    Glad you liked at least the idea; I’ll do my best to keep writing during editing.

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