a short story
The sunlight drips down the white walls, stained them with its bright yellow color, lightened up the room that almost glows. There were some sun spots at the corner of the trapezoidal room—soon they would be moving. Eddies of dust suspends with the light rays of the sun. Everything is touching her, caressing her sleeping skin, tiptoes now to her shut eyes. Her eyelids opened. Her dark brown pupils moved about the ceiling, the corners of the room. She saw the sunlight, she never thought she would see it again.
The moon was full and heavy the night before. Scarce light spills right through the opaque shut windows, forcing more of it to come in, but with gentleness. With much gentleness. The bed creeks against the wooden floorboards. Friction. Friction all over the room. His rough hands glide through her flawless skin, from her slender neck, to her sharp shoulder blades, follows the curves of her torso—just like sculpting her body, all over the places she never knew existed. He knew her body so well. He did it as he smoothly slides up and down her delicate body. Their lips over-lapped one another, wet and cold, but their bodies burn with heat and passion. Her moans falter against the intense atmosphere, she wouldn’t want to wake up anybody, this was a secret after all. Nobody needs to know. Their tongues are tangled, and so does their body. “You’re my earth”, he whispered tenderly to her ear, so close that she felt his warm breath. He connects his eyes unto hers, his eyes, resembling the full moon, his silhouette forms as he untangled himself from her.
The room was getting warmer as the sun gets higher. But her body remained paralyzed on the left side of the bed, almost at the edge. The pale pink sheets are warped under her, revealing the aged mattress from the sides. “It would still the best night.”, she thought. She can smell the onions and garlic being stir fried downstairs. He’s preparing breakfast for her.
He switched on the lamp, and let the dim yellow light stretch out the darkness, but not meeting the spilling moon light. He is on her side now, under the same blanket, beneath one roof, she wishes everything to last longer. Like how his taste lingers until the next morning she wakes up, how she feels his callused finger tips crawling back between her legs, around her waist, all over her after she takes a shower and put her clothes on. She stares at him, memorizing his face, his eyes shaped like that of the moon, his pupils brown reminding her of their many summer loving when they were younger, his nose like those of the Greeks, his lips—of the saints, and blessed honest men. All she wanted was to be with him. Was that too much to ask for?
“You’re my earth”, still rings in her head. It bounces from one wall to another, right against the sharp corners of the trapezoidal room. Hitting her in the head, full blown—like their breaths as they made love. The clangors of the spoon and forks being placed on top of ceramic plates made her opened her eyes once again. The ringing sound two ceramic mugs make as they collide. The wooden table downstairs kept on making knocking sounds as plates are placed over it. A few moment more and her breakfast would be ready. He’s making breakfast for her. Just like any other girl would want, he who is making her breakfast, not her making him breakfast. He makes her breakfast. Everyday.
He was an artist, she always has dreamed to marry an artist. She wanted a portrait of herself hanging on their living room—their own living room, like she was some kind of a goddess. She never had been close to any of that. Until now. Now, once again. She was some kind of goddess when she’s in his arms, when she’s in his eyes, when she is with him. She held his face with her soft hands, moved her fingers left then right, traces his bearded jaw line, “I love you.”, she finally said it. She felt more drained than making love with him, she never had the courage to say those kinds of words to anyone and mean it, not even to her mother, nor to her father. “I love you.”, she repeated once again, but now closer to his face. From a soulless, dead being she had become once again one with the living creatures of the universe, breathing, and alive. She felt at last the blood rushing out her pumping heart, through her highway of veins. She was revived to life. It wasn’t lust that made her moan, or her bones tingle and her flesh tremble. It was love, passion. Yes it was love. She finally admitted it.
She battled her strenuous body and finally arouse from her bed, her hair disheveled, she straighten up her white camisa de chino, let it fall on her knees. The window was open, she looked out, made sure that it was really the sun that causes all the light. Kids across the streets are wearing proper clothes, behaving like little angels. “It must be Sunday”, she thought.
She waited for his reaction. There was silence, deafening silences that caused her ears to ring. The dim yellow light from the lamp suspends at the lower atmosphere, the darkness was at the top. Light was heavier. She remain hold of his face, her eyes searching for his soul she swore she saw somewhere in between their love making and gentle, passion-filled kisses. She couldn’t belief their roads would meet again. She has always believed they were star-crossed lovers, fated to meet only once. But here they are. His eyes lost glow.
There were two knocks at the door.
“Your husband, what about your husband? Would you be choosing me this time?”, his stammering words came out his wet lips. As she was about to speak, the lock of the door downstairs clicked. The familiar sounds of the shoes against the concrete floor made her eyes wide with fear, she felt a quick rush of chill down her spine that swept off all the passion that were burning earlier. Footsteps have come closer, louder along the staircase. The rest of the night was unspeakable.
“Breakfast is ready.”, he forced a smile, her husband, the one he married, the one she knew she had loved truthfully. But only at that moment, that short moment. They went down the stairs and into the dining room. Steaming fried rice, sunny-side up eggs, fried fishes, freshly-cut tomatoes, and a two cups of hot coffee. She chose wisely where to sit, she might have the foods with poison. “We’ll go to mass later.”, his husband broke the silence. He sipped coffee, like nothing happened. He was great with silence and people.
unfinished short story
maybe –a story I don’t want to end
I chose not to end..