Naptime

In the soft, smooth part of the August afternoon in the summer house on the upper floor  someone listens to the quick inhale of arousal  across the hall. Sticky smooth heat melting bodies into one another: breast into breastbone, belly against belly, thigh laying onto thigh,  thick and sheen ready scent of earth soil , deep bergamot, violets and rain, all  twist across the hall into the single room  unfolding into a banner of loss. The guest from New York lies on top of a single bed with hands folded and open book folded over breasts.There is an ache beginning in her heart she will ignore so used is she to ignoring this ache. The banner of love scent will taunt her: wafting around her left nostril until she is forced to turn onto her left side and place her nose into the deep starch of the pillow. Even then there is a glimmer of memory and a glimmer of the present and a glimmer of the moment when she forgot she was alive.

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