Word forplay

It's an Alanis kind of day.

thank you india
thank you providence
thank you disillusionment
thank you nothingness
thank you clarity
thank you thank you silence

Words are so sexy. Many times, after he was gone, I would have imaginary conversations with him in my head. My fantasies are always plot driven, (because you know, chicks like that stuff) and I took just as much pleasure deriving conversations as I did from... well you know. Can I say fucking? I can because I can be or say anything I want here. I can say the hot monkey love, passionate sex, whatever, but regardless the verbal exchanges that led up to the act were just as important as any physical stimulation.

So here's another thing that I've adapted for here. Sounds like adapted for screenplay. I think that is my calling. When we first met, and he read something of mine, he asked me my process for writing it. Apparently I write like teleplay.

This is almost too good for him never to be able to see. Pisses me off.

The bowl of strawberries sat atop the mosaic patio table mocking her. The leaves of grapevine that weaved its way in and out of the trellis above the patio swayed in the warm breeze, creating flickers of light when the sun reflected off the moisture covering their red flesh. Juicy red like lips, the strawberries were making raspberries at her.

Sabine couldn't sort out exactly what she was feeling at the moment. She was wound tighter than a piano string, humming a different frequency each time he struck a key.

When he kissed her in the piazza this afternoon there was no mistaking what he meant. It wasn't an accident, she wasn't expecting it, and she swooned like a southern debutante. But now, back at the villa, he was quiet. When a little flirting didn't draw him out, she became bold, and retrieved the berries from the kitchen. The thought of what she'd done made her cheeks burn just as red with embarrassment.

They had been dancing this dance for weeks, and her feet were tired. She was sick of mixed signals—high on chemistry, soaring from a kiss, hurt by his rebuff, confused about intentions, and longing for something just out of reach.

She was in love.

She'd finally realized it, and just thinking the words made her stomach quiver.

"I'm in love," she whispered to the strawberries.

"And I bet they'd be even better with some fresh cream."

She whipped around to him standing in the doorway to the kitchen. On his face was a Mona Lisa smile which pulled her quivering belly right up to her heart. She had to turn away to avoid his gaze, lest he see her agony. She wanted to crawl under the slate stones beneath her feet and hide, cry—anything just to get a grip on whatever was going on inside her, and save whatever dignity and persona she had left.

"Are you mad at me?" He asked.

She swallowed down the lump in her throat. "No, no. It's most likely just raging PMS."

He laughed. "So what you're saying is I'm not off the hook and there's still time." He walked over to the chair she was sitting on and knelt beside her, taking one of her hands in his and laying it under his head upon her lap, looking up at her like a puppy who just knocked over a vase.

"I'm sorry Sabi. I'm such an asshole."

She ran a few fingers through his hair. "You're not an asshole."

"Shush, let me talk."
"When do I ever have a choice not to let you talk?"

"Smart ass."

She sighed and relaxed her back against the wrought iron patio chair. She could feel the tension leaving her face. Why couldn't they always just be like this? He was just looking at her.

"So talk," she said.

His thoughts seemed to linger though, on the edge of vocalization. She could almost see the words on his lips as they twitched imperceptibly.

"Can you see yourself in my eyes Sabine? Do I reflect you?"

"If I say yes do I get a prize?"

"I'm serious."

"I know you are," she told him. "Even when you are teasing me I can always tell how serious you are." She couldn't help but think if she got the answer wrong this time she would lose everything. "Reflect me how? Literally, as if a mirror? Is it a metaphor for can I see myself as you see me?" She felt herself growing agitated so she paused for a breath. She slipped her hand out from under him and placed it on the side of his face, cradling it, and stroking his cheek with her thumb.

"Or do you mean do we see eye to eye? Do we see the same things when we look at each other?"

He was silent.

"The other day, when you asked me for another word for 'parallel' and I said 'coextending', I saw me in the excitement you had over how well it fit within your phrase. You reflect me when you ask me if I put on sunscreen every morning before we tour somewhere, just like I chide you not to stay up all night."

"I don't stay up all night."

"Quiet, now it's my turn to talk." The words were liquid, pouring out of her.

"I saw myself in your eyes this afternoon, when your face drew near mine, and I could smell the cinnamon from the cappuccino we'd just shared on your breath. I saw myself in you moments ago, when I held that strawberry to your parted lips, teasing them, letting you have just a taste but wanting you to bite…"

"Stop, Sabi please."

His eyes were closed, his face stressed.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I just don't understand what you want from me."

"How can you love me? You barely know me; you have no idea who I am."

"I know you're the kind of man who'd open his door to a lost stranger, and sit up with her all night because she caught a fever. You'll drop twenty Euros in the hand of a beggar. You'll eat the all calamari feet and leave the rings just because you know she hates them…"

"You think they're icky," he interjected with a mock matter-of-fact-ness.

She ignored him. "I know you love sweets and pasta. You take your morning coffee black, yet love lattes in the afternoon. You're kind, intelligent and more respectful than any man I have ever met. What else do I need to know?"

"You don't even know my last name."

At this he sat back on his heels and stared at her pointedly. "This isn't real. We're in paradise; this is the Italian equivalent of Eden," and with a snort of a laugh he added, "You, you are my apple—or olive if you will, following the analogy. Olive, yes, that's priceless."

She felt her mouth going dry. His voice had a tone quality to it she hadn’t heard before. It was bitter, perhaps mixed with some self-righteous anger. Or was it self-depreciating? She stayed silent, implying he should continue.

"It can’t stay like this Sabine. This is a time-out, an interlude; like the ubiquitous, mysterious dance sequence in 'An American in Paris' it doesn't play any part in the plot. You have people back in the states that care about you, and you can’t hide here forever. The same goes for me…"

"What are you hiding from?" She asked, at this point not expecting an answer.

He shrugged. "From myself, I guess. I can't tell you what I want because I don't know what I want. I'm a big coward, afraid of me hurting you, afraid of you hurting me, frightened of failure…" His voice trailed off. "Every time you look at me with those eyes, flirt with me, push my limits, my heart and soul wants nothing more than to pick you up and carry you off to my bed, but my head is screaming at me to be responsible."

"I wish I could be a fly on the wall of your brain. I feel like I'm not following your train of thought, because there are assumptions I'm not privy to. Responsible for who, me? Who made you my keeper?"

"You did, the minute I saw you sitting in the square wearing that adorable floppy hat, obviously distressed, clutching a map in one hand and taking inventory of your purse."

She had to smile. He was like the answer to a prayer, after having been robbed of almost everything she had as she slept on the train traveling south from Milan. She had gotten off the train and after filing what seemed like dozens of papers a station guard, or whatever he was called here was kind enough to drive her to the nearest town so she could contact police, family or other authorities. Not that she was about to call her family. Perhaps she was just as afraid of failure. She was however, not afraid of herself, nor him.

He breathed a deep sigh, and relaxed to sit cross legged on the ground. She got up from the chair and joined him there, now at eye level instead of sitting above. "You are so young Sabi," he said gently. "I'm here because I ran away from mistakes, if I let you steal my heart what will I do? I can't keep you here, a de-facto prisoner in my self-imposed exile. I should know better. So despite the joy your amaranthine presence adds to my life, despite the innate and unremitting temptation you embody, I push you away.

As always, language and words could bend and shape at his will. They held this great power to touch and penetrate the soul. He was like the Pied Piper with no need for a flute, for his voice was his instrument. She could then hum the refrain he designed to allay the unease that invariably had come from his arsenal mere moments before. Much like resolving the tension created by an augmented chord pleases the ear.

"Your words are always so pretty. You're often being counterproductive when you do that you know, disguise the bad stuff with stunning prose."

"You give me far too much credit sweetheart, if I do anything it's try to spare your feelings. To see you hurting, pain or tears on your face, is like a knife in my heart." Then he smiled and shook his head, "I guess you're right, that was pretty poetic. Maybe even pathetic." He was trying to get her to smile, and she couldn't help but to.

"Are you kicking me out?" She asked.

"Oh God, no. As if I could. One, I would never do that to a friend in need. Second, I think I would surely die from 'Sabine withdrawal' within hours."

"Oh please," she said, with a roll of her eyes.

"Seriously, as dangerous as it is to my health to have you stay, I can't bear the thought of you leaving. Can we just walk this line a little longer and maybe the right way will show itself?"

She gave a heavy sigh. "So basically this conversation accomplished nothing."

"I wouldn't say that at all, I would hope you have a better understanding of my feelings and where I stand." And with that he stood, brushed off his jeans and extended his had to help her up.

"True," she agreed, accepting his assistance. "But I still don’t know your last name."