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Kymberlie Ingalls is native to the Bay Area in California. She is a pioneer in blogging, having self-published online since 1997. Her style is loose, experimental, and a journey in stream of consciousness. Works include personal essay, prose, short fictional stories, and a memoir in progress. Thank you for taking a moment of your time to visit. Beware of the occasional falling opinions. For editing services: http://www.kymberlieingalls.com/p/editing-services.html

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Air




            The gold streaks of the sun melted into the violet sky.  Miles beneath, they basked in the cool shade of a towering willow tree, the wispy branches sheltering them from watchful eyes.  The soft green leaves whispered in the breeze that swept over them, bringing welcome respite and tickling her where beads of wetness made their way down the hills and valleys beneath the soft cotton dress that she wore.  He lay at her feet, imagining a journey through those curves.
            She read to him from a book, filled with poetic words that seemed nonsensical to her, and a quiet laugh escaped from her lips every so often.  He gazed upward at her mouth, forming words that sounded pretty but escaped him just the same.  Such ripe berry-colored lips that he longed to taste with his wanting tongue.  He just knew they would be sweet and his mouth watered at the thought.
            From two different worlds, they were.  He, a military man baptized in Southern blood, with a code of honor that carried him, made decisions for him, and forbid him to do anything but harbor this secret desire for another man’s wife.  He was tall and lanky, but his well-built form caught her eye.  He could see it when she glanced hurriedly downward after her gaze had traveled from his boyishly handsome face and amiable smile to the muscled arms and sturdy chest beneath the casual shirt tucked into blue denim. 
            She hailed from the western coastal state of oceans and golden hills, and he could see the mountain lakes reflected in the slate blue of her eyes, and could see the survivalist within longing to be understood.  He wanted to toss away the book of poems and hear instead the stories that darkened her, but the rare whimsy she exhibited at the silly prose captivated him. 
            Playing softly in the air surrounding them was a symphony of Bach, wafting from the small transistor radio nestled in the grass.  The violins rose and fell in time with her breathing; he couldn’t take his eyes from her blouse that barely fluttered up and down as the gentle wind teased them.  Long notes serenaded them, carrying them back to a simpler time when stolen moments were like rare gems. 
            He felt a stirring, a pulsing, as the sweet candy sound of her voice tickled him, and the flush that awakened in him had little to do with the summer rays.  He longed to take her voluptuous curves in his arms, to do things to her that would be improper in any other setting.  The glint of diamonds and gold against the soft white of her hand reflected on his own simple ring.  Somehow that only excited him more.
            The tightness he felt against his leg warned him that he was about to tread into dangerous waters.  The black-cherry auburn of her hair lay against her pale shoulders in stark contrast, the tendrils were wild and careless as they hid her face.  Moving to a sitting position, he reached past the long legs hidden in the sea of her skirt to sweep them away from her left cheek to tuck behind her ear.  The flashing of blue told him she hadn’t invited him to touch, but didn’t dispel him either. 
            Dare he take her lips as his own?  Could he stop there?  This simmering between them didn’t come from the warmth of the day.  He wanted to be inside of her, swimming in her thoughts, collecting them like ripe fruit from a summer tree.  Could he hold her hand in his without the two rings burning into their flesh as a reminder of their sin?  He wanted to rain kisses on her bare shoulders, to tug at the eyelet cotton that wrapped around them. 
            As he shook his head in an attempt to break the reverie that swelled in his muddled mind, a warm pink flush crept over her.  This only charmed him more.  The sounds of yesterday that drifted around them didn’t chase away his desire.  Her husky voice coursed through his ears in a mad rush through his bloodstream. 
            He leaned in, his resistance worn, inching closer to the delectable lips that smiled at him in beguilement.  But, knowing he would not be able to stop himself, and suspecting the same of her, he veered away from his daydream and rested his head in the crux of her lap with a sigh borne of reluctant nobility, as she turned the page in her book, placing her hand on his chest. 
            Shelving his weakness, he closed his eyes against the fantastical wishes that melted in his weary mind like golden streaks into a violet sky.



© Kymberlie Ingalls, June 12, 2011

           
           

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