Doug Cost Writing Exercise 5

It shouldn’t have mattered that she was a Libra but it carried a matched set of baggage. She waited impatiently for the arrival of this man she hadn’t met. She had been observed by him at this place, but she was unaware. The beautiful soft-rolling curve of her upper leg was an airfoil grounded on the chair ready for a take off, to be released in the confines of cotton sheets. The curve stressed the center seam of her jeans, looking ready to burst. If only that rip would ignite and expose the soft flesh of her upper thigh. Her meek white skin fit her slightly slumped posture. His arrival marked a change in her body posture. She took off her coat. He was no exception to the rule. She displayed the wares of coy persuasion. He was unsure whether to shake her hand, pull out her chair and push her in, or kiss her wrist. I hugged her, smelled her hair of her lost vegetables. Conversation started plainly, it was obvious this was our first meeting. Expectations riddled the constant sizing up of the smallest of gestures while he tried to pay attention to listening. And to absorbing some sense of who she was, when he knew that all that was to be known about her would be taken in through eyes. The crossover of her leg a blasphemous rumor of hiding the prize until the kicked-up storm revealed other wise. Bobbing toe, bobbing toe, heel-toe shimmy, minute fluctuations rocking her whole body. A reprise to rub the knuckles of her left hand across rough denim polishing a silver turquoise ring. He absorbed her and basked in the light of the potential of something new. She giggled and batted eyelashes. Intimations he missed while he lifted her top with his eyes, all the time keeping them trained on her face. Her pose put her best aspects forward for all to see, an imposed jealousy of observations. It was an act of betrayal intended to draw a conclusion of omniscient availability. She wanted the cool caress of his hand on hers, over the table, a parade of what she needed and he couldn’t realize. I sat up in my chair augmenting the curve in my lower back. It made the difficult dining chairs somewhat more comfortable, but revealed me like an ostrich. She sat up in reflection. It aroused her scent, pushing lavender. The vegetable of her hair united the draw of her drying hair, curling the ends, which sent a smile up his lips. Her neck slowly revealed by her retreating hair. I wonder what that skin tastes like…eggplant, tomato skin, onion cells, surely salted, certainly brown-peppered. He sizes her dishwater hair for its display in the throws of morning-frumpled sex---- “Can I get you something to drink?” the help interludes. “A glass of Jupiter Cabernet Sauvignon.” The words, her tongue, her teeth, roll off her lips. “I’ll take the same.” He watches as she opens the privacy fence menu and then drinks her through thirsty eyes. Everything possible without craning his neck and upsetting the balance in his sneaking peaks. She knows, behind the menu that he is admiring. She collects herself, blotting lips and moistening eyes. She can almost make out her reflection in the plastic. She bought new jeans for this date. He wore his rubber, not so well-concealed, on the outer edge of his wallet, forming a mid-hip bull’s-eye. “What can a get you to eat this evening?” again interrupted. “I’ll have the oysters on the half-shell and the salad.” She ventures. “And I’ll take the steak with mashed potatoes.” It’s curious as to who is the most unrefined. Facades are flying everywhere wanting notice signs but they know their eventual dismissal. The interruption has brought the conversation down to the waterline. Their clothes have been shed for turtle shells and they clunk into each other making love, not Spanish love but a passionate, lustful orgasm of epic proportions that lasts all of a second, so I step in to finish the job and discard him like the hobbyist he is. He has a girl problem. Her shape was presented on its cheap pedestal for them all to admire. She attracted glances from the bar to the adjoining tables. Those men glanced as they continued looks around the restaurant. Hoping the stare did not stick out for too long in the circuitous piercing. The summer breeze of sunshine floated in the windows off the river and it lifted her towards the slow rotating Hunter fan. Then she balanced between the ground and the roof, in repose with that contemptuous grin soaking in the orbit of new satellites and exercising the power of her gravity. She sang. She fluttered like a butterfly. The scene melted away and it was just, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t talk. I tried screaming. Nothing came out. All was dark, blank. She butterflew to her spot behind the microphone. Her voice licked the bulb of the microphone. She gently cascaded through wires to tulip tweeters as sweet as nectart, emanated smooth, impregnated my ears. They turned red. My brain swelled. My body went numb. I had no sensation apart from the soaking she gave my eyes and ears. She was a form on that stage under a simple spot. My eyes faded to black and I drank her music. She knew my favorites; she sang them to me like when she used to wake me up. I preferred a sweet song to a blowjob, eventually. It was waking to heaven, to a spiritual awakening every morning I arrived. No snooze button. I only received one. On a day she was in the mood, I might get two. Only on my birthday could I get her siren song litany. It could play all day, a sultry approach to a day that never got out of bed. And then it faded. A switch in the flow of circuitry crossed signals. My other senses failed me and crept back in. The stagnant smoke, the top of my mouth, and my fingers on diagonal ridge denim. She was in encore. The bass rattled bottom feeders. The harmonica built buildings. The acoustic kept us all up with the treble in her voice. She flung her hair out and flicked it back and forth and back and forth, a horse’s tail, corralling it with the ring of her pointer and her thumb. She stroked it the length and stroked it. She tied it off with a ponytail band. Something whispered across the table in her ear and it was on. Released from constraints of the first dinner never arrived. The wine glasses unfinished marked sudden disembarking. Steak, oysters, and salad for Uma’s cowboy junky.