A Black Cat in Belltown
Her eyes were low, and she was hungry. I watched her walk in through the threshold; I think I lived one thousand lives. There were hearts above my earlobes, and all the world ceased. The honking horns and screeching tires, the voices in cacophony, and the clatter of glass bottles went mute inside a moment. All were drowned by the glow of her short-kept hair and glasslike figure wrapped in a dress of geometry that hugged and conformed to her figure.
I imagined my hand palming her lower back until sliding it around her side, pulling her in closer to mine. As if shaken from a deep sleep of a pleasure seldom dreamt, I came to with my eyes still fixed and watching her. I was locked into her position like a missile with a homing beacon. I watched her more intently as she moved across the room with an effortless air of splendor and grace, like a fairy upon still water. Through the spattering of humans and pinball machines, I watched her gracious stature slice through the room like a razor blade. She was cutting through space and time, and cut me down the middle, flaying my still-beating heart, leaving love to puddle and pool at my feet. Like wet cement in a basin, I was stuck, my eyes fixed upon her, trying intently to memorize the mannerisms her face makes. I was trying my best to learn her before inquiring and saying hello. All my senses severed save my shoddy eyesight; my sensual acuity, bottlenecked behind my retinas, processed by my brain, and received by my ever-beating heart.
My olfactory kicked back on, and I was back in the world, greeted by cigarettes and stale beer. But I desired to re-enter that world where only she is alive and everything else is but an object to please her, solely with no other purpose than what she may allot them. I was in the world where an indelible impression was left in the confines of my chest, where the majority of a man’s love lives, center-right. Her face was painted like a mural on the inside of my heart, and I thought it the only applicable setting for such an image to occupy.
I watched her more, trying to unite my eyes to hers. Every time her head moved, the light brown hair with blonde highlights glided delicately across her forehead and ears, just above her bare shoulders, above the dress falling like water all around her. I thought of her naked body by only light of the moon, fantasizing about how I would contend with all the shapes her form could take and how purposefully I would wrap my two unworthy hands around her knees and shoulder blades. How I would move my lips down the side of her neck, land softly below her collarbone, and drag them down below her bellybutton until finally reaching my destination. I would breathe softly on her feathery soft flower, inhaling her scent and exhaling mine between her legs until her body tenses and I grip tighter to subdue her convulsing and spasm.
I was again in a daydream, but it was approaching middle night. I shook my head once more to loosen the grip of her soul from mine, but it was of little use. From across the room, I stood enamored; like a bumblebee working his damndest, I had to land inside her petals, soak myself in her pollen, and live placid in her bud, as there was no hive worth deserting my newly found nirvana.
Her dress of gossamer, that I so desperately desired to remove from her body, caught the cool breeze of an emerald gust. In this dive bar spawned from hell, she was brighter than any firework or table lamp possible. None could compete; quite simply, she outpaced their lumens with a simple glance and a smile made of a certain bashful slyness. She was headed toward my position on the patio, seeking cool air to calm the burning flame that is her body. She sat one table away, and I could taste her from a mere five feet away. Her essence smelled of primrose and freshly laid nectar. I wanted to bite her neck and taste her juices filling my mouth with all her liquid. She was sweet, so petite, her frame slender with parts protruding; I would lick sweat from her armpit, suckling all the wet she makes. From her pores, I would slather her pheromones in my mustache and keep the wash from my face for days, letting them sit atop my skin, reminding me of her redolence and her aroma, my new favorite cologne.
Before I could strike, she moved from my vicinity, and upon finding an empty booth inside, I set my path for hers. I walked past her once to confirm her reality, as I knew of mirages in desert cities where apparitions are quite unkind to those more tender-hearted. I doubled back as her existence was confirmed by the pull of my heart to hers, like an invisible arrow was shot between us, and not far would that tether take me.
She stood to order egg rolls and I approached her close. Her eyes were spitting sparks against my body; I could have taken her right there. I asked if she was waiting for someone; I asked her not to break my heart and allow me five minutes to capture hers.
She said no, she wasn’t.
The sound of such a sweetly angelic voice invaded my eardrum, and I wanted to put her mouth on mine. I wanted to grasp her delectable curves and taste every inch of her.
She permitted my company back in our booth. She obliged while I sat calm but eager, loose yet tightly wound. I was ready to pour myself into her sclera and fill it with the longing of love. We sat across from one another, and she was somehow cuter up close; when seen straight on, she was the most beautiful woman in Seattle. My desire to fall naked next to her was building with each new breath, with every laid word. I wanted her body on top of mine and our limbs intertwined, like two pieces of rope tangled and making a knot only intervention could unravel. I kissed her gently at her car, with my arm bracing her back behind her, and I can still feel the rage of her blaze as it razes all my structures. I bleed now so profusely; I bleed with a longing to feel her lips again.
