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By silvertongue Date: 2007 Dec 18 Comment on this Work [[2007.12.18.05.05.6320]] |
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compte de soixante. qui sera le premier de nous à rendre? not a significant night. not as yet. aloft, in appreciation nouveau, her attention consumes the effervescent ascent of bubbles, petit hisses and crackles from a fluted vial of chardonnay, sipped in a private rhythm now subtly hastening, though not by conscious thought or intention. a command is issued, saturating the nuit: "Allez plus profond et plus rapide, si vous plait. Je ne peux pas finir vous goûter." Compte de cinquante. Il doit arriver. peal the entry bell. on the summon, so she sashays, silk slink on the hips, not poetry in motion, no, men have not the imagery to enframe her left-unto-right-unto-Mon-Dieu-those-curves. hinted smile, expectant twin twinking azurene eyes, dazzler and dancer and darer, wayfarer stride 'cross the carpentry. oh, hello, do come in, you're just on time. that serves him, or her, well. Compte de quarante. Elle est la maîtresse de la cérémonie, mon amie. what manners. he bears roses, enemeralded eyes, slight exasperation and a hint of concrete, gasoline and single-malt whiskey. you started early and without consent. to which, wise, he offers no reply save for the jacket hung on a convenient hook a forever, forgiving exhalation, and a rosacean glow aface, in out from the dreadful to the softiqued shimmer of candlelight. Compte de trente. Ces minutes sont un plat que vous ne pouvez pas consommer à la hâte. my, you're ravenous. past an elegant spread of perfect fowl, garnishes and alcohol she fuses the indigo of her iris to the jade of his own and samples her dinner in measured portions, savoring by morsel the succulence and flavour of the utterly elegant feast she's prepared for this occasion. never stating her inspiration or intention but neatly folding her cloth napkin and setting it dead-center on the finest china, chosen only for the special and welcomed. Compte de vingt. Venez maintenant, vous êtes presque inutile dans vos mesures. how the time passes. from the table two she rises, collecting the wares and saying no words with an unusual flair, she leaves the surroundings spotless melts through the dim towards another door, opening it minutely and cranes the perfect swerve of her face, arm akimbo ever-slightly, back towards his person. an imperceptible smile decorates her lips in the angled shroud, and off she ventures, out of sight. Compte de dix. Est-ce que, monsieur, qu'elle me dit vous a dit attend? a fine night to you. the visitor arises and thunders towards the front, no grace or grandeur, boys are never of fluid motion, merely frozen frames of etches and edges. he collects coat, keys and thinks better of the flowers; enough for dinner, or so the thinking goes. from the far corner of the spacious digs his canine ears pick up the vibration of fingers slowly grazing across marble and brass, then he returns his direction to her former stance and observes, daintily dangled at the edge of scarlet nails, lace. Compte de deux. Vos souhaits sont vos commandes. and she whispers to him: "Allez plus profond et plus rapide, si vous plait. Je ne peux pas finir vous goûter." |