I stare wide-eyed at my invitation. As if I wasn’t already the breaker of a thousand diets.
I do not need any more temptation in my life.
My fingers stomp on the keys like an over-weight middle-aged woman taking out the trash in which she’s concealed the evidence of her failure to stick to salad.
It’s virtual, a celebration for us girls, the ones who can only dream of those lithe bodies with which they once entwined.
Virtual chocolate cake? What’s the good of that?
Are you sure I can’t tempt you? Go on. See how many hits you get.
Written in response to a prompt from Susan T. Braithwaite
Genre Scribes Friday Fiction Writing Challenge #34
The challenge this week was celebration.
Author’s note: I was so taken with Violet Lentz’s response to this same challenge that this is what I found myself compelled to write. It’s also a little experiment about the magical pull of lust and chocolate!
All alone in the
big brass bed
You’re late, my love!
Your body craves,
with unfulfilled desires.
Where are you, my love?
A door bangs
A shutter creaks
He has come.
You are the moon
He is the night
You shine in his darkness
Engulfed by his touch,
slave to the rhythm
of his dance.
Later, in the empty bed
Was he really here?
Two ruby red droplets
on your pillow.
The legacy of his love.
How her heart fluttered at the very thought of him. This beautiful, wonderful man: tall, dark and handsome with olive skin and deep, probing brown eyes. She couldn’t believe that he’d chosen her. Never had she been so truly, madly, deeply in love. Her life was perfect. Complete.
Cliché after cliché toppled her reason. He lit up her world; he made the sunshine brighter, made her weak at the knees with a look. He made the earth move for her. Naughtily, especially with that tongue of his. She blushed at the thought. With total abandon he’d loved her and she’d loved him back. She’d explored every nook and cranny of his gorgeous, lithe, strong-limbed body. Felt the warmth of his breath, the strength of his heartbeat. The intimate tingle, that lingering consummation, together so perfectly ravished.
He was her perfect hero.
Such a shame she had only made him up.