To keep a promise, here's a bit of a different Saturday Post!
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Six Separate Thoughts - Part 1
The shoes were pinched. They
were jewel encrusted, heeled, and satin underneath her petticoat, but they were
pinched. No wiggle room; certainly no air. Still, they were just too pretty to
remain hidden under a dress encircling three feet round. Shoes of such beauty
should be seen. Unfortunately for the young lady, ankles in this era should
not.
Foolish intrigues amongst these powerful
families annoy me, with gilded goblets and gossip, but I’m the part that makes
the magic, and she paid with her toe.
In this guise, no one cares
about me unless I hurt, fall off, or need painting. Foot hygiene bordering on
the manic is the rage in London these days, so painting isn’t big here yet. It
will be. Perhaps I’ll be put to use again. A new body, part of a new woman, a
new time, a new future, a new past.
As soon as the deed is done, I’m
leaving.
The slide-roll-slide friction of
her gait was something akin to a rude massage. The relief when she sat down
felt decadent, like butter on toasted bread. Unfortunately it was not too long
before she was asked to dance by our conquest, ending my respite with an
extended hand.
If I had a neck, I would have
rolled it in preparation for the grand performance. Sensation ceased. A
cinnamon and pepper spark inside my soul began flickering tiny fire, and while
wrapped in perfect etiquette, I sent my yeasty dream up his spine, into the
crook of the neck with the gentlest kiss of a single fingertip sensation, behind
and then into his ear; felt more than heard.
“Mine.”
I returned bodily to the discomfort
within her squish-pull-point lope about the ballroom. The sheerest curtain of
frenzy fell around them, as if they were the only two in the room. A passionate
air current ribbon wove tendrils around their never-touching wrists. The most
accidental graze between the backs of hands, scandalous despite the gloves,
began a storm of flipping fans, adding air to the fire. I claim full credit as
the arsonist.
They’ll be married by Michaelmas,
and her child will have a last name of good standing, within the same bloodline
no less.
Time to go.
It actually works in her favor.
It will hurt when I take my leave, and she’ll most certainly stumble. Perhaps
there will be a fall, and the dutiful if not suddenly attentive fiancé-to-be will
save her publicly. She’ll have a lock of her hair in his coat pocket before the
end of the night.
It is a shame about the shoes
though.
***
For Seddybear - This was fun!
With words, song & prayer,
TiMo V
