Aphrodite, Inc.
Freelance Writing, Editing, and Design
Freelance Writing, Editing, and Design
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Site Design Copyright 2008 Aphrodite, Inc.
Aphrodite, Inc.
Freelance Writing, Editing, and Design
Freelance Writing, Editing, and Design
First Night
It begins with a glance. A shy lowering of long-lashed eyes, the arch of a dark brow. Blue irises and green meet
over the fog of a lamplit room. Mouths, working, form questions that look like smiles.
Then, steps. Feet hurrying to the point of intersection, hesitant, purposeful. Hands are yanked from
comfortable pockets; they flutter up to catch at a dangling necklace, or scratch the back of a tense neck – then
drop, only to linger uncomfortably near the seams of crisp chinos. Fingers spread, then contract into fists,
gathering courage. Words fill the air like streamers, colorful and insubstantial, intertwining on their way to the
floor.
A palm alights on a cashmere forearm: welcomed, it skims along, rounding the curve of a slender shoulder.
Laughter leans in close, breaks like water over hopeful ears, and pulls away. The hand falls – but only to be
caught up in another. Skin on skin quickens two heartbeats.
More words fall; this time, they are invitations. Covert glances are shrugged off like rain, ignored. The door is a
gateway, closing, closing. . .
On the far side, the crowd and the fog recede. The shadow of two hands by streetlight is a love-knot on the
pavement. Anticipation is the rumble of a busy street. Doubt is a clammy palm, the taste of whiskey on a thick
tongue. Silent questions thicken the air like flies – and are brushed away by an arm, draped over a cashmere
shoulder.
Suddenly, steps falter. Feet turn inward. Eyes close over hasty breath. Lips part like night-flowers blooming, shy
of the moon. Fingers rise to walk the planes of an uncharted face, to tangle in a spill of perfumed hair. Faces
raise and lower; polarized, they pull close like magnets
And then, lightning flashes, blue and green. Apprehension shatters like a dark window. Language is a swirl of
tongues, translated into heat. Time is fluid, slowing, melting . . .
Names are flung into the street; they push past curtains of desire, tolling like thunder. Hands fall trembling like
rose petals into space. Faces turn outward, flushing pink as they drift apart, unmoored. Guilt is red as smeared
lipstick, pale as a scorned wife’s cheek –
– and anger is fireworks in a pair of blue eyes, narrowed over pale cashmere.
over the fog of a lamplit room. Mouths, working, form questions that look like smiles.
Then, steps. Feet hurrying to the point of intersection, hesitant, purposeful. Hands are yanked from
comfortable pockets; they flutter up to catch at a dangling necklace, or scratch the back of a tense neck – then
drop, only to linger uncomfortably near the seams of crisp chinos. Fingers spread, then contract into fists,
gathering courage. Words fill the air like streamers, colorful and insubstantial, intertwining on their way to the
floor.
A palm alights on a cashmere forearm: welcomed, it skims along, rounding the curve of a slender shoulder.
Laughter leans in close, breaks like water over hopeful ears, and pulls away. The hand falls – but only to be
caught up in another. Skin on skin quickens two heartbeats.
More words fall; this time, they are invitations. Covert glances are shrugged off like rain, ignored. The door is a
gateway, closing, closing. . .
On the far side, the crowd and the fog recede. The shadow of two hands by streetlight is a love-knot on the
pavement. Anticipation is the rumble of a busy street. Doubt is a clammy palm, the taste of whiskey on a thick
tongue. Silent questions thicken the air like flies – and are brushed away by an arm, draped over a cashmere
shoulder.
Suddenly, steps falter. Feet turn inward. Eyes close over hasty breath. Lips part like night-flowers blooming, shy
of the moon. Fingers rise to walk the planes of an uncharted face, to tangle in a spill of perfumed hair. Faces
raise and lower; polarized, they pull close like magnets
And then, lightning flashes, blue and green. Apprehension shatters like a dark window. Language is a swirl of
tongues, translated into heat. Time is fluid, slowing, melting . . .
Names are flung into the street; they push past curtains of desire, tolling like thunder. Hands fall trembling like
rose petals into space. Faces turn outward, flushing pink as they drift apart, unmoored. Guilt is red as smeared
lipstick, pale as a scorned wife’s cheek –
– and anger is fireworks in a pair of blue eyes, narrowed over pale cashmere.