As I enter Melodie’s orbit, I pretend not to recognize her; avoiding admittance to an acute tug of arousal that rings like a dinner bell when she flicks her lost-girl gaze over the hardened planes of my time-worn face.
She yawns into a lazy stretch, revealing a naturally tan abdomen. Underarm hair grazes her paisley shirt sleeves. I remember how she used to teach belly-dancing, slender appendages rising above her head, tracing imaginary mandalas with blunt nails, hips gyrating: a sylph’s body under the influence of seven airless seas, without the presence of waves to induce motion sickness.
The names of the native plants adorning her desk escape my recollection, though likely they have never been present in my mental glossary. Perhaps I should learn them to impress her.
Melodie asks me what I’ve been up to for the past fifteen years. I don’t tell her I often think of her limpid eyes melting into mine (chocolate lava cake rivers); that I could gorge on her thick thighs like Augustus Gloop and still not quench my parched-paper passion with her melted marshmallow, ooey-gooey, sticky-sweet S’mores kisses served on crumbled graham cracker lips, forked by our tongues.
Instead, I promise to keep in touch.
“Homespun” © Jane Bled 2016-2017
Chocolate and beautiful women: a divine pairing. Temptation; just out of reach.
Thank you for tasting.