A Little Munchkin

You look at her and she is a princess dancing amongst fireflies. She spins and they twirl, she leaps and they follow. Like the soft glow of a barely new moon, she pervades you. The twinkle in her eye does not beget her true her. For she does not know who she is. Not yet anyway. But she will, in time. She might take you hand and the warmth will flow into you like a tsunami of want: want of love, want of protection, want of transient attention. And you will do naught, for you can't. You are a whim. Her whim. Her azure will delve into you and you will fight from doubling over with revelation. Her pearls will make the marionette strings pull at your rosies.

When it is enough she will fly. High. She will be a giant a head above you. You are a vessel and she your captain. Through treachery she will not pass, only tolerating the good. There is no room for evil. How could you let there be? Her music will entrance yet ground all. They, and you, can see their, and your, being's reason only through her. She is meaning, and you long for it. To taste purpose is to revile the past. But there is no point because it is pointless. Looking back is pointless. Only now can be true and she is true and what happened before is tainted; memories afflicted by the present belie truth. She is high and flighty. She enraptures all and her joy permeates throughout the hills and sands and they call back to her and she feels it.


There might be another but she is the first. It will always be so. The other(s) will come when they come and they will feel the same. New and glowing. Basking in the warmth like the mid-morning sun reaching for noon. But you won't forget. She won't forget. Her purity will ensure your standing amongst them all. They will know her but you won't let them envy. Nor will she envy them because she knows. You will never leave her or them. You will stay there when sun strays and the night unfolds; when cracks appear and the foundations crumble; and when there's no one else, just they alone, there you'll be. Waiting, like the paragon of protection you long to be.


She must come down soon and she will. With unknowing grace and simplicity. When magenta splashes smoothly across the dying horizon she will reach for you, extending an olive branch of hope and affection. No longer a giant she wants to be small. To be wrapped with love and soothed with a tale. And you'll bring her down softly, showing her the way. She can walk by herself, dance down the path, but still needs something to hold. And you give her that and she takes it and feels fine, as if the world were a constant joy. She is not scared because you are not frightened. Together you find home and she is safe and she knows it.


She finds her Gaia, waiting sagely. And to her she is drawn. To fall into her, to bathe in the warmth again. She comes back and stretches up, wanting to be just tall this time, not a giant. But just like you. Her arms fly around your neck and she squeezes so tight it's almost uncomfortable. But it's OK because it is her. She let's go but you don't. She pecks your cheek, like a chick picking up a seed, and you do the same. Then she captures you and she both looks deep inside you and doesn't. You feel her gazing upon the very essence of who you are, judging you, discerning your worthiness of her love or admiration. But this is just you contemplating yourself. She's far away from thinking about that and you know this but your mind wanders.


'Yuv you.'


'Love you too, Moo'.

The Lady and The Boy

Her body is warm. She sucks on a menthol cigarette. Frost or smoke seep from her barely parted lips. A gloomy dawn pervades the cold motel room. No birds can be heard ushering in the rising sun. Only the gentle hum of the bar fridge fights off the oppressive silence.

*

The lady graced the warm, inviting bar with adulterous intent. A sultry atmosphere dragged itself in upon her wake. Her make up was perfect, her black dress slim, and her scent alluring. If seduction ever walked on two legs, it was she. They told her she was like them. They said she needed it. She thought she wanted it.
He was not alone. He vied for her attention, like a sick puppy. A youthful version of her spouse, the boy was muscular, full of life, and handsome. Her body warmed to the sight of him but it was laced with something. He reminded her of someone. Someone pretty form a story. But her memory failed her.

Luring him took all of a look and a smile and yet the boy considered her a triumph. He bought her a drink and whispered things only a younger man would and she remembered thinking: ‘yes, this is just how it should be.’
She recalled how it felt to have him inside her. Smaller than what waited at home but enthusiastic, a sexual caring she had learnt to live without. He was determined to impress her, as if it mattered, which it did, but not anymore. His eagerness to fuck released countless endorphins.

*

She considers her husband, as she sits at the dresser. She fixes her sweat marked make-up and ties her disheveled hair into a loose and respectable bun.
‘Mistakes are made and cannot be undone, only rectified,’ she told the adulteress in the mirror. Her walk of shame will not occur. She will have none of it. The thought will come and go like a shooting star; a transient figment within her dignified mind.

She glances at the sleeping boy on the bed behind her, still dead to the world. The lady walks over to him and pushes the brown hair back from the boy’s forehead and his eyes open and then wider again. She stands.

‘Oh, such a lovely red scarf.’ She gazes down at him, tenderly. But there is no pity in her. Not for him or herself. Not anymore.

The simple starched sheets cover only his pale legs and flaccid manhood and he makes a small growl of defiance. She slips back into her slim dress and douses her clothes with expensive perfume to cover the night’s decadent scent.

‘You look so cold now, sweetie.’ She crosses the room and pulls the covers over him, kissing his wintry cheek. ‘So pretty.’ She strokes his red scarf and wipes her fingers on the clammy pillow. The lady picks up her pumps and rises and walks out the door. The lady turns only to switch off the lights and watch the light fade from the boy’s eyes.