“Am I not the greatest human being in the world? I took this nerdy little girl, transformed her into a beauty, awakened her sexuality…taught her how to bowl.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Master,” I said, while lunging at him with a playful punch. He caught my arm and wrestled me into a head lock. When he released me at his side and kissed me, I smiled to myself.
Yes Master, I thought in my head, you are the greatest.
(For clarity: bowling is by no means a euphemism for something more sinister…we simply went bowling earlier in the day. Master winced with unreserved embarrassment as my ball deviated into the gutter time and time again.)
There is a girl whose journal I consistently read, who has fed my daydreams with graceful illustrations of her beautiful relationship.
“Your reality is my perfect fantasy,” I wrote to her once.
I used to devour her memories with a sense of ravenous longing, of waxing desperation.
My skin still prickles when I read her entries, but now, it's because her words reflect my own bliss.
The trees shrug off their leaves at the wind’s mildest flirtation. I see the lust trapped in their knotty eyes when they writhe under alternating light and heavy breaths. They flaunt their gold and blush in crimson, unaware that this coquetry will soon turn into merciless ravishment. Throughout the dark of winter, the wind’s frozen touch will turn their tears into icicles that cling to their naked branches.
I am inside, looking out, giddy in my knowledge that I am with a man who wraps a blanket--or better yet, his arms--around my shoulders, when coldness creeps into the room. When the air from the open window transforms in quality from refreshing to chilling, he calls for me at nighttime, and pulls me into his chest, where I can feel his warm sighs against my cheek.