|66, 77, 88|
88 keys, black, white, in their place, orderly, exactly where you expected them, never lost. My fingers made them sing, tunes made emotions fly, each phrase, the rise and fall, the swell, was inspired by my missing muse. She surprised me with depth and shocked me with passion. Hedonistic and primal, the keys called out to her memory. My wife, my agent, the audience wept and laughed and cheered as the last notes faded.
“What’s it called?” a lone voice shouted
I smiled and answered, “A Winter Kiss.”
66, 77, 88, symmetry in shape and progression. The perfect score with shooting foul shots (1 for 1, 2 for 2, 3 for 3….). A number and a prime, and a picture that invoked playfulness, winter’s heat, escape from the inside, a rebellion against cold and ice. I was intrigued by the numbers more than the pictures at first. The picture is cute enough, reminds me of my winter girl who taught me of passion and what fireplaces and fingers were really for. The big hat is silly, fun, fashion, but the ass, the legs slightly spread, is an invitation, a winking greeting of what lies in store.
I love winter sex, covered in thick blankets, their weight pressing down on both bodies, the windows open for a bracing chill on exposed skin, the sweet relief as sweaty spent bodies come up for air.
Have a wonderful winter, a safe and Joyous New Year’s Eve, and a fabulous Flash Fiction Friday.