Wisps of Hair, Wisps of Steam
In the late morning I watched her as she moved with a patient grace across the cheap, laminated wooden floorboards. Her curved hips swung slowly, like a heavy pendulum rocking back and forth, back and forth. Her hair was pulled up high in a messy nest. I watched the light from above, shining through the skylight, as it illuminated the individual wisps of hair left behind, curling over themselves where her spine joined with her neck, just under the surface of her light olive skin.
She was a piece of art, a network of bone, muscle, flesh, and skin. All of it interwoven with such surgical precision to allow her to beat, to move, to flow through time and space with a sensual flirtation that clung to her like a heavy musk.
The kettle was still hot. A trail of steam, like morning fog rising out of the treetops, flowed in a tantalising stream from its opening.
Sound entered the canvas, as the water flowed from the kettle nestled in her hand — her firm, small hand, into the mug. My heart caught, a beat forgotten, and she set down the kettle and turned, pivoting on one foot with thoughtful grace and precision.
Pulling the mug up to her face, she smiled brightly at me, the edge of the mug obscuring her bottom row of teeth. The upper lip creased as air flowed under it, washing the steam away into nothingness. Her palms were covered with the extremities of her sweater. The blue wool protected her hands from much of the heat as they cupped the mug. The handle pointed back at her, and it too disappeared as she drew the mug up to her lips. Her soft, malleable lips — pink in them morning, maroon in the afternoon, often a deep red at night.
And sometimes they disappeared altogether in the darkness of the bedroom, but it was then that I didn’t need to see them. I could feel them falling upon mine in an impromptu, tantric dance.
This morning, though, they reappeared, moistened by the tea, as she, the colourful canvas, this sculpture of sinew and flesh, opened them and said to me softly, “Good morning.”
Matt Querzoli wrote this. Follow his writing blog, his letters to strangers blog or his blog blog if you liked the post, or even the bloke himself if this tickled your proverbial pickle.
