Horton-Scorton
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Apr 29, 2008
- Messages
- 110
I took her on a date.
She has a wide nose, she has a thin face. In most of her room it's all stained with her scent, the girl's standing upright now: she's just got a small frame. Her eyes are journalistic and swift but I detect an innocence, a knowing oldness and a maternal gut lingers; I read helpful dottings of an iris / pulse just so.
Her lips are small and curled gently, reassuring you with their natural redness and health. A skinny girl, but not a victim of culture and magazine glamor. She's just skinny. Auburn hair. Casual turquoise dress. Delightfully scattered and unsure of her beauty grace charm intelligence, etc. She's lost the narcissisms that sniff around young men and women, thrown them into alleys as a delicate swift aside: she's decided to instead give you a peppy but sincere gaze with her female eyes, thank god.
'My mother is an English magazine model,' she tells me.
'Wait. You're English- were you born there, raised, what?'
'hmmmmmm...ha! I can trick you, mister chemist. I moved to the States when I was 7. Sheffield's my birthplace. Mother still tours the fashion circuit in London. I lived with my father till I got a place with an old boyfriend, Joshua. I don't like looking back, do you?'
'I don't think so,' I lie. I am chained to my past.
A pause, a stillness between us.
Then, she speaks, her tone more somber, searching, clinical.
'So, was she the love of your life?'
'I'm sorry? Charlotte?'
'Yes, of course."
I sit.
'Well....yes.'
It all ended in sex, and the best part was sharing the bed again. I know something about physics and philosophy, but why are these arms stand-in props to recreate the classic play of Charlotte and me? I try to forward my body like a clock, but a self-evident truth has wandered into the field of question marks and paradoxes.
'Hold me.'
She has a wide nose, she has a thin face. In most of her room it's all stained with her scent, the girl's standing upright now: she's just got a small frame. Her eyes are journalistic and swift but I detect an innocence, a knowing oldness and a maternal gut lingers; I read helpful dottings of an iris / pulse just so.
Her lips are small and curled gently, reassuring you with their natural redness and health. A skinny girl, but not a victim of culture and magazine glamor. She's just skinny. Auburn hair. Casual turquoise dress. Delightfully scattered and unsure of her beauty grace charm intelligence, etc. She's lost the narcissisms that sniff around young men and women, thrown them into alleys as a delicate swift aside: she's decided to instead give you a peppy but sincere gaze with her female eyes, thank god.
'My mother is an English magazine model,' she tells me.
'Wait. You're English- were you born there, raised, what?'
'hmmmmmm...ha! I can trick you, mister chemist. I moved to the States when I was 7. Sheffield's my birthplace. Mother still tours the fashion circuit in London. I lived with my father till I got a place with an old boyfriend, Joshua. I don't like looking back, do you?'
'I don't think so,' I lie. I am chained to my past.
A pause, a stillness between us.
Then, she speaks, her tone more somber, searching, clinical.
'So, was she the love of your life?'
'I'm sorry? Charlotte?'
'Yes, of course."
I sit.
'Well....yes.'
It all ended in sex, and the best part was sharing the bed again. I know something about physics and philosophy, but why are these arms stand-in props to recreate the classic play of Charlotte and me? I try to forward my body like a clock, but a self-evident truth has wandered into the field of question marks and paradoxes.
'Hold me.'
