We met a coffee shop.
Not a Starbucks or a Caribou or anything fancy like that, it was just a plain local coffee shop that served mediocre java and salted lunch meat on stale bread.
The menu was impressive enough to keep the place open, and after all, it's where I met the man who changed my life.
I pretended to be engulfed in a rather boring Sparks novel that I grabbed off the counter to pass the time when he sat down across from me.
His hair was black. His suit was black. His shoes were black. His skin was a smooth drinkable ivory that only accentuated his stunning green eyes. He was typing away furiously on his laptop, but amidst his deep trance, something broke his concentration.
****.
He caught me looking. Frazzled, I motion for the waitress that doesn't see me to come over and refill my already half full cup. Fill it with some of that mediocre coffee of course.
****.
She doesn't come, but he does. He says my deep brown eyes, caramel skin, and tight curls made him want to write poetry. Anyone worthy of that type of inspiration must be approached, is what he said.
I tell him my name. He goes by William. I never got his last name and I guess it didn't matter. By the time we downed our burnt brazilian roast, we were headed out the door in search for a more intimate setting as if where we were hadn't been quiet enough.
I don't now what made me bring him to my apartment, the eighth floor, sitting on the patio soaking in the sounds of the city below us while sweet white wine ravished our veins.
I knew what was coming.
He commented on my blouse, said how it made love to my breast in a way no man ever could. He said my hips were like curvaceous lilly valleys winding around the hills of Maine. He said my hair was sunkissed with natural bronzer that shined eloquently at the turn of each curl. And as his hand brushed my cheek, he spoke of my dimples and how they were perfectly placed upon my smile blessing anyone whom could successfully create one.
As I came out of my bra, he kissed my neck and kissed my chest and kissed and kissed and kissed until he found what he was looking for. He told me my skin was soft as satin and sweet as sugar right off the cane. When my jeans fell to the floor, he traced his lips along my ***** line, saying he had never desired so badly to taste wild honey.
When I was naked and vulnerable at the mercy of his will, he examined me like a feast as if he didn't know where to begin. He entered me so softly, I could hardly tell he was there. He told me I was beautiful. He told me I was perfect. He told me it was tight and wet and he didn't want to be anywhere else in this **** of a world but right here inside me.
I see stars. I see the sun. I see the highest mountain tops after a soothing rain. I see moonlight on a hot summer night and the beauty in the auburn colors on an October afternoon.
William not only rocked my world; he painted it. His hands carried such an elegance about them that my body ached for his touch even more so. With every moan that escaped my lips, he spoke poetry into my ear. Telling me to "look up and imagine Paris" and "close your eyes and build a dream". All of his mumbo jumbo made sense in a weird kind of way.
I always thought people only climaxed at the same time in movies because that's just something you can't schedule. It slowly sneaks up on you like a tiger in the wild, and just when you think you've lost him; BAM. That's when your ten seconds of ohmyfuckinggoshdontstoprightthere kicks in and you realize it was the best ten seconds of your day and of your life up to that very point.
As swiftly and beautifully as he came, he was gone. But before he left me feeling empty and full at the same time, my previous infatuation and excitability had made me succumb to his trance, and I hardly even remembered what (if anything) of which we spoke.
I say to him, "William, please tell me. Who are you? What is your last name?"
His answer baffles me, and doesn't make any **** sense; "You will find me as the candle in the wind, the condensation on a glass, and the fruitful taste of white zin on your tongue in the heat of the day."
And with that he left.
He left me standing there sticky and lonely and satisfied and mad all at once. I figured I may as well clean up my mess, clean up myself, and continue to rule the day.
I begin a motion to take the sheets off the bed and roll them up in a burrito of sin when I had stopped and realized I didn't want any latex melting in the dryer.
I search for it. Like, really search for it.
Ok, it's not under the bed.
Where is it?
Not in the burrito that I just tore apart.
Not in the garbage.
Not in his hands when he left.
My eyes never left him.
Or did they?
****.
Valleys and flowers and sunshine and stupid *** Paris. STUPID. ***. PARIS.
All that madness and stupid weird *** just ****** me off. It caught me off guard. That wasn't me back there, careless Carrie. No. No.
That wasn't me.
**** it.
I need to shower.
[....to be continued...]
This is actually the beginning (intro) of a short story I'm writing that I felt was so poetic in the idea itself so I just wrote in poem form. I may actually continue to write it this way. All rights reserved please, and feedback would be lovely!
(C) Maxwell 2014
