Evening shade in magic-hour—light and shadow through trees gone of October-gold, cold and, after, nude in winter’s way—he wrote a story. He wrote it as it came not knowing what it was nor where it would lead. It caught his interest. Beginning wrote and, from, he found the rest.
At story’s finish, he felt hollow and sad depressed in the ending. He had not wanted it to stop—the writing or the tale—but that was how the story wrote. He knew no other way.
Eyes rose from page and his far-gone mind returned to present in a sight: she in lie and peace-repose in read before the hearth. Body long, skin fair and smooth in mood tempered in light of flame.
His throat grew tight and heart beat strong in amor of her beauty.
She lain on stomach, body flat, pearl sheen of bottoms in cover of curves and shape that added to throngs in throat and heart.
As his own, her eyes rose from page catching his in stare and amazement. She smiled. She laughed. She looked back to book and turned a page.
He wanted her right then.
She knew: smiling, waiting, reading in calm of her repose—mood tempered by the hearth.
“Do you ever find yourself invested and drawn and lost in a story and not wanting to go back?” he asked.
“Back to?” she asked, inquisitive in eye and body’s shift in shown attention.
“Reality—life—what’s expected and what you know…”
“I do…”
“What do you do?”
She paused in muse. She answered, “Sometimes I go back. Sometimes I stay in the story…Every time is different—depends on the story.”
He looked to the lawn and light outdoors, the light and shadow of dream appearing in take of living place and form; dread and hollow and sadness at thought of departing and leaving visioned dream behind.
“I don’t want to leave,” he spoke. “I don’t want to go back.”
“Then don’t,” she spoke simple and plain seeing no reason for despair. “Stay. Stay in the story. Stay with me. I’m not asking you to leave.”
Her words were calm, eyes and body too, but within depths of her were stirred.
She knew what she asked. She knew that he read, understood, the more than said, astir, beneath surface repose.
She measured breath, controlling, lips modest and make of no further sign, but in her eyes—enrich of gleam—he read her spirit’s plea.
Stay.
He rose. He answered.
In stomach lie, under-sweep of his hand, her body raised gentle from stomach plain beneath her navel, her spirit stirred in prepare for the more.
His shift of her body, low draw of the pearl, smooth oneness once again; match of move and body’s breath heaved stronger in the oneness; her high body’s fall, lowering into brush and sweep to covered floor beneath. Stronger breaths, stronger love, bond-intimate as One.
They stayed in the story, held in its live, turned page into new season of love, spirit, and life as hearth fire tempered mood, glowed love-toned skin, as hearts made aflame.