Monday, June 3, 2013

string thing sing

While she confirmed my theory on breasts, improved it actually, firmed it up, my mind wandered into thoughts of melons, the taste of a freshly cut cantaloupe, not too soft, but fully ripened. Always a little juice moistens the lips, sometimes down the chin. The fingers need licking. More juicy than the honeydew, which ought be juicier, by name. Honey drips. Dew is wet. At least the watermelon is aptly named. But I didn't think about watermelons. As a rule I don't think about watermelons. I strongly dislike them and never consider them. Well occasionally. But then only to be dismissive.

It is an odd friendship. We are occasional, sporadic. She is here and then she is not. And we are still learning what games to play. Today we type and think and create and occasionally talk and laugh. She reads to me something she likes. I am smiling but I'm not listening. I like her too much to listen to her voice repeat someone else's words. So I focus on just her voice, not the words. The pitch, the speed, the volume. It's a fun game, and if I can close my eyes I can build a song around it. Our secret music. Or just mine, I guess, truth be told. Unless I tell her about it, which I won't.

I like how she walks. Her steps fit her frame, her balance good. We haven't yet established comfortable walking protocols, the pace and space is still quite jagged, which implies boundary confusion. Sex has neither been ruled out nor ruled in. We haven't discussed it for obvious reasons: it makes me nervous. If she were a lesbian I believe we would walk beautifully together. We might even hold hands.

And she fits nicely into a chair. Slightly tilted back when reading. More erect when sipping her coffee or taking a bite of pastry. A lovely little wipe with the napkin. (It's worth mentioning that many women transmit sexual signals here, with the wiping; she is very careful to transmit nothing, almost to the point of being considered asexual, but I am not fooled as easily as most others.) She politely leans in when conversing, a touch more if I amuse. It encourages more amusement and I comply. I can recite amusing on cue and this allows me to wonder how much lean I can acquire. Can I bend her over fully? It becomes another game and we play it merrily.

Perhaps another time I will describe her laugh. Just let me summarize it as: worth pursuing. Eventually she will withhold her laughs, insist I give her organic material. That time is so far away as to not be worth considering. We could all be dead before then. And I have such a stuffed queue. Like a silo after harvest. (Is that analogy overly overtly phallic? and then you've got the seeds spilling and all of that


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