When you are with the one…. (but you are thinking of the other)

The sun lights the hills as trees cast long shadows. The uncut brown grass bends beneath the breeze, as the car rumbles down the road. She drives, she speaks, she goes unnoticed as he looks out, at the long shadows passing, over the hills, over the grass, past green patches not sun struck, near trees with their leaves crumbling dry on their branches.

Her face framed with her red hair, cut short showing her fragile white ears, small and close to her head. Her white hands, grasping a small part of the wheel, all they can possibly grasp. The tendons bulge beneath her white skin, as she goes hand over hand turning the wheel driving the car past the trees bending, the leaves crumbling.

Her right hand drops from the wheel and her small finger, red colored nail, traces the plastic on the dashboard, searching for the CD controls, past the air conditioning, past the ashtray, the finger shakes with the motion of the car, she changes the music.

His brown eyes turn to her black head of hair as she enters the room. She leaves again, swiftly past her piles of books covered in dust, particles kicked up by her wake and she stops in the hall. She stops in front of the yellowed, white painted door to the dark bathroom. She stops before the ball of her small white foot touches the linoleum of the kitchen next to the bathroom. She stops in the narrow hallway; each hand touches each side of the narrow hallway, which ends with the door of the apartment. She turns her small white foot, her toe nails painted purple, with a chip in the polish of the right big toe, she turns her foot towards the living room, with its piles of dust covered books, the dust kicked up in her wake. The ball of her foot strikes the brown parquet floor, the tendons bulge through the white skin as she places her weight upon it. She looks up and her green eyes meet his brown eyes.

He closes his brown eyes, and avoids the gaze of her hazel eyes at the stoplight. She turns her red head of hair away and looks towards the fields, to the point where they are broken by the Mansions in the distance. The grasses are long, brown and bending in the breeze. The fields with their occasional trees, the brow dry fields with their patches of green are broken by the automatic sprinkler systems ringing the Mansions with their spray of water. The Mansions placed upon artificial bluffs built, ringed with green short cut grass, surrounded by the midst of water, with the long shadows of the Mansions cast away from the sun.

She presses her thin lips tightly together, pushing out the red color, turning pale pink. The white skin beneath her lips wrinkle in fine lines to the small corners of her mouth. She looks over the road, her hazel eyes search for the small road signs, at the head of small roads, cutting off in different directions into brown fields, against the setting sun.

She tells him to watch the road, she tells him to keep an eye out for the road. The car moves past the signs, hidden beneath the crumbling leaves of the trees casting long shadows against the setting sun. He watches the reflective lettering against the black rectangular surface of the signs past swiftly by the rumbling of the car. She narrows her hazel eyes to slits, her long eyelashes trying to shade against the glare of the setting sun. Her small white hands hold the black steering wheel, the knuckles clenched tight around the plastic of the wheel. She leans into the wheel, her chin almost touching the black plastic wheel, leading to her neck, her hands leading into her straight wrists, going to her thin white arms, joining to her soft uncovered, thin shoulders. The summer dress hangs by two thin white bands from her thin shoulders. The thin cotton clings close to her breasts.

She leans back in her chair; her breasts push forward through the white tee shirt, as she laughs, sending strings of black hair floating in the air behind her. Her small right hand touches the space between her freely hanging breasts. Music plays on the DVD player, through the TV, behind her as she pushes her empty round white dish away from her. There is a scattering of pieces of pasta, oil, and red cabbage, garlic, left on the plate. Her thick white hand reaches to the water glass, half empty with dark red wine, that she brings to her full red lips.

He looks out the window at the apartments lit up against the misting rain of the night. Square after square lit, people moving past the yellow light coming out of each window, above and below. He looks at the shafts of light, exiting the windows, the light cutting through the mists creating rainbows at their limit as the angles of light cut through the cramped courtyard.

He looks at the fabric covering the cat-ravaged corners of the white couch; he looks at the blue piece of fabric laid diagonally across it. He looks at the waxed pattern of wood in the parquet floor, placed in herringbone fashion, leading to the walls, covered in piles of books. He looks at the books with covers in grey, white, black, blue green, red. He looks at books soft covered pocket sized, large comic book cut, hard covered standard size, and hard covered small. He looks at the herringbone pattern of the parquet floors, leading past the television set, playing music through the DVD player. He looks at her small white foot, with purple nail polish, chipped on its big toe. He looks at her thin white ankles, small enough to wrap his hands around. He looks at the small tattoos, one tattoo on each ankle, each one of a flower, one in black and one in yellow. He looks at where her faded blue jeans are folded back from her tight white skin. He looks up her body, to her full hips, her narrow waist, her freely hanging breasts beneath her white tee shirt.

He looks in her hazel eyes as she enters the hotel room. She turns her red haired head away and closes the door. She rests her thin red nailed hand on the aluminum window frame as the other opens the small grey screened window, and looks out at the trees, bent in shadow as their crumbling leaves fall from them in the evening breeze. She leans her head out till her chin almost touches the grey window screen as she turns her hazel eyes upward toward the moon.

He looks over the industrial stitched brown rugged room. He looks at the lines left in the tight weave by the vacuum cleaner. He looks at the JVC television set with the wood style plastic on its sides. He looks at the white tiled floor, the child sized bathtub with shower, and he looks at the two small glasses, at the palm-sized piece of soap. He pulls down the brown bed cover on the king sized bed. He pulls down the tight tucked tight white sheet and turns off the light.

He looks at her play with her red hair with her thin white fingers. He looks down her thin arms flow into her fragile shoulders. He looks at her long torso flair out into her wide hips. He looks at her long legs emerge from the thin fabric of her summer dress. He looks at the draping of the fabric over her ass.

He runs his thick tanned finger along the books in the bookshelf leaving a trail in the dust. He looks at books of history, poetry, short stories, autobiographies, cookbooks, novels and self-help books. He looks at the rows of books on the shelves, the piles of books on the parquet floors, the dust covered books of French, German, Italian, English authors. He follows the rows of books till he sees her thin white feet and tattooed ankles at the end of the bottom row. He turns his head up over her faded blue jeans, thick soft thighs, full hips stretching the cotton of the jeans, the tee shirt clinging to her freely hanging breasts. She moves her thick red lips to say that there are more books in the bedroom if he wants to see them.

He walks across the thick brown carpet, his black rubber soled shoes make no sound. He walks across toward the square off white wall, he walks toward the square small grey window, he walks and stands behind her thin fragile figure. He places his lips to her thin white shoulder, as her head cranes, as her chin almost touching the screen, as her eyes gaze and the half moon hanging in the sky. Her red nailed fingers curl on the aluminum window frame, her red nailed fingers curl on the window glass. She opens her thin pale lips, she opens her small white teeth, she breaths in deeply, her white cotton summer dress fills as her bra pushes out against the fabric. He runs his thick tanned hands up her sides, his hands with a dusting of black hair on their backs reach up to the strings holding on her dress. He undoes the bow knots in each, he lowers the dress down to the thick red industrial carpet, he lowers her white cotton dress to the floor and it makes no sound. She exhales letting her thin white chest become smaller. She turns around and closes her eyes. Her closed crescent shaped eyes.

She opens her almond shaped green eyes, as she runs her short plump purple nailed fingers through his short brown hair. She closes her eyes as his right hand goes beneath the white tee shirt, his muscular hand goes up against her soft plump flesh and runs up her body. His muscular hand goes over her body as she opens her almond shaped eyes. His pouting lips touch against the delicate part of her left inner arm. He rubs his clean-shaven cheek against the soft pale skin of her upper, inner arm.

His stubble covered face scratches the sensitive skin of her long outstretched neck. Her thin pale lips pull back from her small white teeth, as his unshaved face rubs against her. Her long red nails drag down slowly down his broad shoulders making him tighten his embrace. Her long red nails trace the muscles of his broad bare back. She looks to the window and sees a shaft of the ambient light cut through the black hotel room. She listens to the occasional sound of cars cutting through the sound of chirping crickets. She closes her hazel eyes and opens her thin red lips and gasps for breath.

She exhales, to the distant honking of cars, as his thin brown fingers release her breast. She runs her short, purple nailed fingers across his narrow back. She draws blood as his body shutters. His broad brown lips pull back from her, his hot wet breath condenses on her soft white neck. She pushes his tall thin body away from her. She brushes her long black hair from her eyes. She takes off her glasses and puts them on the bedroom end table. He watches as she unbuttons her tight faded jeans. He catches his breath.

She runs her hand down his long, pale body. She runs her thin pale lips down his hairless pale chest. She looks at his large pale lips, his low cheekbones, and the splay of his long black hair against the white pillow. She watches the closure of his gibbous shaped brown eyes. She looks at his long thin arms, she watches the muscles clench in his pale hairless arms. Her hazel eyes watch his long thin fingers, clutching the white sheets. She takes a second to breath through her thin pale lips.

She opens her green eyes and runs her purple finger down his thin brown hairless chest; shallow breathing, against the blue sheets. She looks at his curly black haired head deep within the blue pillow. He opens his brown eyes and reaches his long brown arm for her full pendulous breasts. His long hairless arm reaches across and grips her soft white breast. She runs her purple nailed hand through his curly black hair. She looks at the connection of his black eyebrows above his aquiline nose. She watches his broad brown lips pull back from his nicotine stained teeth. She pulls his curly black hair. She closes her almond shaped eyes.

He opens his brown eyes and sits up in bed. He runs his hand through his short brown hair. He sits up and breathes deeply into his broad, muscular chest. He runs his hand over the space between his short eyebrows, over his high cheekbones, over his pouting lips, through the thick hair on his chest. He looks at her and closes his almond shaped eyes to stop his vision from blurring. He stands up on his short legs, they buckle beneath him for an instant and he staggers forward toward the angle of light coming through the window, throwing a long shadow from his body. He leans his head out the window to look at the sun.

Originally on re/make/re/model

When you are with the one…. (but you are thinking of the other) by J.E. D’Ulisse CC NC — ND 2013