This is my bit for last week’s Picture It and Write! photo challenge brought to you by Ermilia Blog. I’ve read some very well written entries for this one and most were tragic in one way or another, the photo surely inspires such trains of thought but my mind tends to veer in the other direction. Shall we follow and see where it leads?
via Ermilia Blog
They say around, the way you’ve asked for me. There’s even talk of you wanting me … I need to know, oh baby girl, I need to know … wondering if you’re gonna take me there … it’s getting harder not to think of you … If it’s true don’t leave me alone out here … tell me what you’re feeling … I need to know … I need to know … I need to know … … …
The Latino beats were ripples in my blood, growing into giant waves of a jittery high that crashed inside me as I moved in time, as my limbs interpreted the lively, seductive rhythm. The music, the dance, the heat of it. It was like a fever in my veins but I was going to out scorch it, I’ll be damned if I didn’t. My skin was slick with exertion, breaths left and entered my lips in sharp rushed bursts. I felt on fire as I twirled on the tips of my toes in my ballet pumps, my shoulders got into it, my arms had a mind of their own. I conjured him here with me, my shadow prince in my dreams. His handsome features hidden under a mask of midnight, how I longed to see beneath it.
I threw my head back, eyes closed, as the blare of the trumpets swept me away, my hips swayed with the delicious spicy beats. I imagine his hand closing around my waist, the other one taking possession of my wrist pulling me closer and away. I grit my teeth as I stepped up my pace. Feeling more that a bit wanton in this snatched moment, no rules, no delicate movements here like what was demanded of me in the studio, but still graceful as the Black Swan. My body was free, mine to manipulate.
“Marie? Are you still up?” my mother called from the front door. Crap. I came to a halt. He faded once again to nothingness, smoke chased away by the cold wind of reality that strode in after the woman who insisted on its constant presence. I hurried over to cut Mark Anthony off in the middle of the chorus in time to hear her keys drop with a feint clatter in the bowl on the coffee table. She didn’t consider this music of quality. I love Mozart and his lot, don’t get me wrong, but tame music all the day long never did a body any good. I wonder, though, if Mark was loud enough for her to have heard him.