He watched her progress gingerly along the pier, heels chattering between the voids, echoing down the finger of wharf. One lone gull screeched overhead. Mesmerised by her fiery tresses bouncing, a flash of pubic curl shifted him self-consciously on his chair. He reached for his wine, already a glass half empty. A dry Spanish white suited his mood, and his task.
The day was sunny but not fine, the sky blue and cloudless – except to the south, where towering clouds rumbled, boding later explosions.
She looked up, and he caught her eye, her unblinking eye. Her lips parted, and his mind’s ear could hear the intake of air, as her ribcage expanded, and her loins girded. Was it his imagination, or did her lips purse? He tapped three fingers on the starched linen cloth, broke off a wedge of Manchego, and scooped a dollop of quince into his waiting mouth.
A Tenth Daughter of Memory contribution.