Richard Lyons
rL
copyleft: Richard Lyons 2010
Lay lady lay, Lay across my big brass bed.
Whatever colours you have in your mind
I'll show them to you and you'll see them shine.
— Bob Dylan
How did he do that? She shut her eyes again.
Again she felt the warm rays of the setting sun on her face, saw in her mind's eye the glorious blaze of red and orange, fading to green, streaked with thin charcoal clouds, all reflected in a glassy sea. And yet, eyes open she could see the even greyness stretching out over the choppy waves, only brightening a little over in the west to show them where the sun must be descending far behind the veil of cloud. But with him, she felt as radiant as the sunset he had imagined for her — and somehow made feel so real.
She flung her arms around him and held him tight, reaching up with her face, seeking, and then finding a long, passionate kiss.
Afterwards, walking back, arms intertwined, she began to wonder. That perfect kiss: did she imagine that too? Or worse, she thought with a moment of rising panic, did he imagine that for her too? Who cares! If it feels like perfection, why not simply enjoy it?
* * *
Over drinks, and over dinner, they talked, as new lovers do, of easy recollections and funny incidents. Each small tale by one reminded the other of something from childhood, a place, an imaginary friend, a family pet. Do not think they were drunk: they did not need the stimulus of alcohol. She drank fruit juice and fizzy water, he started with a strange non-alcoholic aperitivo that she had never heard of. It was pink, and bitter when she tried it. She said she prefered her juice, and he smiled that enigmatic smile. The little inn was economically furnished; the food was simple and good, though no gourmet feast. The restaurant chairs were slightly uncomfortable, but in their room was a large and luxurious bed with a shiny brass frame that seemed to her very classy, and an ensuite shower-room. She insisted on paying her share and when she had suggested this, economy hotel, he had agreed with no comment, so she supposed he was not wealthy or accustomed to greater luxury.
She described an occasion when her pet rabbit had escaped, only to be cornered by the neighbour's dog, a silly and quite harmless animal. It was not a very amusing anecdote, but he laughed with natural joy, and she remembered the neighbour's dog's puppy. When she began to talk of that sweet little animal that she had so loved at ten years of age, he asked for details of its appearance and and she described it, he closed his eyes to imagine it. She followed suit and saw a vivid picture in her mind of the animal she had described. She could not usually form such vivid mental images. She opened her eyes, sensing that he was somehow making the images for her, to find him, open-eyed now, gazing at her with that enigmatic smile. She could still see the image, even open-eyed, but when she closed her eyes it seemed again almost real. It was different from the puppy she remembered from her childhood, but as she corrected the description, the image adjusted like some kind of virtual photo-fit for pets. At last she said, “Yes, that is it, do you see how sweet it was?”
He said not a word, just nodded, holding his head slanted and concentrating on her words, and still that smile.
“Only, it was never immobile like that,” she mused, “It was always so full of life, dashing about everywhere...” and screwing up her eyes again she saw the pup prancing hither and thither, ever alert, ever playful. As she described its antics, she felt that her inner image of the puppy had taken on a life of its own and was prompting her memory, rather than her memory building the image.
* * *
After a slow meal, during which they leaned ever closer one to the other, they went up to the room. She was suddenly shy and awkward. The room was unfamiliar, she had not been intimate with a man for a long time. How had she got herself into this, and why? But he sensed her uncertainty, and put an arm around her saying, “Hey, what a cosy room! It is so warm and welcoming, so private, so ready for us.”
She felt instantly at home and intensely in love. She had never before been swept by such passion, but did not question now. It did not even seem strange to her: she followed instincts she never knew she owned. She dragged him towards the bed and he did not resist. He was undressing her — and she him. His fingers magically located and set aside the safety pin she had used to secure her dress; her fingers somehow knew the working of his belt buckle, though she had never seen one like it. Their clothes lay mingled on the floor. They kissed long and deep, They alternated between the urgency of unfulfilled love and the luxury of slow sensation...
Two hours later, or was it three, they lay intertwined and spent, occasionally murmuring sweet nothings. She had often wondered what sweet nothings were, but now that too was clear. Everything before had been mere puppy-love. She had never before received or given lovemaking like this, such total passion, such oneness with another, such orgasms.
“Never been so happy,” she whispered. That enigmatic smile appeared, and dissolved in a total smile that seemed to her to spread right through his body.
Her gaze was led by the smile down the length of his muscular body, and she felt her own smile broaden. She realized his gaze was echoing hers, travelling the curves of her, darker-skinned body.
“The shapes we make,” he said softly, “have you seen? Where we fit, and where we don't... the curves that play... the most beautiful caves between... Look, from here.”
He was right. Each body alone was beautiful, but the composition of the two was, well, divine.
His fingers traced profiles, following the curves of her breasts, the silhouette of his chest and hip, her thigh. As she followed the wandering fingers, she closed her eyes. “I would love to be a...” he was speaking in a dreamy undertone, pausing to find the right thing to be, “to be a little beetle, travelling the landscape of your body.” Her momentary revulsion at the idea of being crawled on by a beetle was supplanted by a sense of delight as the picture of a breathtakingly iridescent little creature came clearly into her mind. She could feel it trailing lovingly up her belly. In her mind's eye she saw it curving around her ribs, swinging back to spiral over her breast. As it moved it adored. It seemed to bless her, centimetre after centimetre. It circumnavigated her areola, then climbed to the tip of her nipple. Ripples of pleasure flowed back down her breast. It opened its glittering wing-cases, spread its wings and kicked off sending a thrill right to her soul.
The little beetle had landed on the foothills of her other breast and was now climbing that in a counter-spiral. With a contented smile, she opened her eyes again to see her partner's finger tracing that same line that the now invisible beetle was crawling. When the finger reached the tip of her nipple, when he gave a little flick as his hand followed the beetle's trajectory in the space between the duvet and her belly, she knew that he was somehow less real than the beetle, and closed her eyes again to watch the little creature land clumsily by her navel. Its irridescent wing-cases closed, but it lost its footing tripping on the tiny blonde hairs of her skin, and slipping upside-down into her navel.
“Your skin is an enchanted forest,” he whispered in her ear. “I shall be even smaller. I shall be a tireless ant and walk every crevice, every mound and every vale of your body.” She briefly opened her eyes to share his gaze one more time, but in the half-light she saw only the sweep of his shoulder — or was it the curve of a fold of duvet? As her eyes closed, she again watched the little animal, now indeed transformed to an ant, as it clambered delicately out of her navel and headed south. It was much slowed down as it negotiated what for it was a great forest, her pubic hair. She knew it would soon arrive at her labia, and was sure it would somehow bring her great pleasure once there. And in this certainty, she fell asleep.
The puppy jumped repeatedly and excitedly up at her. She squatted to pet it, adopting the gawky, knicker-exposing posture of a ten-year-old. As she stroked its silky fur, it quieted and rolled against her. Her fingers traced its youthful contours, exploring the nap of the fur. Her eyes followed and there, with a start, she saw a little flea squirming between the hair on its back. Suddenly the flea jumped, landing on the puppy's head. It jumped again, now landing on her chest, which she realised was bare. Horror! it was not a child's chest at all, here were breasts: she was a naked adult with a flea about to bite her breast. Or was this a dream? Where were her clothes? Who else was here to see her like this? She looked around, but none of the people here looked familiar, nor was any one of them looking at her. They were all busy with each other. She slipped quickly through a doorway. At that moment, she felt the flea bite, and slapped her hand over the place. There was more light here, and she managed to catch the flea between her fingers and, seeing no other way of disposing of it, she crushed it with her nail against her ribs. Blood smeared onto her — hers? Or had it bitten someone else first? She pulled the covers up over herself. Yes, of course, it was only a dream. She turned over, deciding to have a different dream, another beautiful dream, like the visions the stranger seemed to bring her...
* * *
Light streamed in through a gap in the curtains, painting a strip of wall and a band of bedcover bright. Slowly she awoke, feeling a deep unease, a sense of anticlimax, and, most of all, great exhaustion, as if she had not slept at all. As if she had laboured all night. Then she remembered. She reached out and rested her hand on his shoulder, slid her fingers up through his hair. Both were cold: the duvet must have uncovered him in the night. Perhaps she had rudely dragged it off him in her sleep. She pulled at it to try to cover him, but it was somehow stuck to her chest. She was reluctant to open her eyes. Last night she had learned that the world is more beautiful with closed eyes. But, finally, she opened them. The sun that should have shone for their sunset last night was now blazing gloriously. The narrow stripe of light from the opening between the curtains was more than enough to light the little room.
As she took in the scene, the clock ticked slower and slower, till it seemed to stop.
The duvet was stuck to her with blood. Quite lot of blood, really. Had their love-making been so rough? Had her period come early? Was she somehow injured? No, the hand she slipped between her legs came back clear of blood. As she carefully peeled away the duvet from her breast, there was no sign of injury, and no sudden pain from tugging at a wound. She was turning her head now to ask him for help, but it turned so slowly, like moving in a nightmare.
That was it. This was a dream.
The blood stain extended off towards him. It got bigger. The panic grew with it. She felt frozen in time, unable to move. Her gaze crawled across the bed as she tried and failed to comprehend the intolerable image of a man crushed as by a giant's fingernail. She had to wake up. Or to convert this dream into anything else. She tried to see him — it — as a squashed flea, seen close-up.
Or an ant... or a poor crushed iridescent beetle.
Why should she have such horrible dreams after such an evening of pleasure. Was it something she ate? That would be it. The hotel food...
This thought made her stomach turn. Suddenly time leapt back into motion. Everything whirled around her. Dizzy, nauseous, she was gagging, uncontrollably throwing up some remnants of her meal over the body next to her. Whining like a wounded dog, she was rushing to the bathroom, tripping on their clothes on the floor. She was crawling into the shower. A hot shower to wake her up. Can you puke in a dream? Can you shower? Can you scream? In a dream, you usually can not. She could not scream, either. Her mouth was too dry, even after the shower. Back in the room, the body, the blood and the sick were still there. She could not imagine how they had got there. She desperately wanted to imagine she was dreaming, but when she took the safety-pin she had used yesterday to secure the strap of her dress, opened it and plunged it into her breast, there was pain, much pain, and blood. This time it was her blood. Her pain. And now came her scream, a thin, rising cry.
She could not imagine how the body came to be there, came to be crushed.
She tried very hard not to imagine it.
She squeezed her eyes closed, but what she saw was worse.
Daylight! She must have daylight. She rushed towards the window, stumbling over the scattered clothes on the floor, and threw open the curtains to let the sunlight sweep away the horror, then hurriedly pulled a corner of curtain up to hide her nakedness from all the people outside. There was nobody there, just a wedge of field, trees, distant sea and sky. The sunlight only showed more detail of splintered bone and extruded organs. She could not imagine how. She would not imagine how. She sat on the corner of the bed furthest from the — thing, and waited. Shivered, and waited. It was so vivid, it would surely go away. Like the puppy, and the iridescent beetle.
Two hours later, or was it three, it was still there. She slowly rose. Slowly dressed.
She must not imagine.
She could not stop imagining one thing. She could not stop imagining how her lover came to be there, squashed like a pestilent insect.
But she did not want to imagine.
She must not imagine. Anything.
She did not want to imagine.
Ever again.
* * * * *