Goosebumps
A Short Story
It was in the early hours of the morning that he would rise. He had not mentioned to her whether it was a haunting of his dreams, a restlessness whose source could not be found, or just a confused body clock — no matter the cause, he would always awake before her. She had tried to beat him to it, but no matter what, he bested her every time. She often wondered how he might look while sleeping — that comfortable morning slumber where his entire body emanated warmth and his conscious lay dormant. It seemed only fair that as he had had the opportunity to gaze upon her so many times while she lay in that state, that she should return the favour.
Not long after he woke, he would become restless, and would no longer wait for her to rise. He wasn’t intolerable in this way; late nights would be respected and sleep-ins often granted. But after a while, he would take his finger and drag it slowly over her spine, as she slept on her belly. Tenderly, softly, gently. Up to the heights of her neck, where her hair curled like unruly cobwebs, and down to her lower spine, before meeting the rise of her backside. When she woke — often when he switched to dragging his tongue in the same line — she would lie there silently, giving no hint that she was aware now of his activities. Keeping her eyes closed and her breathing even, she savoured the simplicity of the morning and the feedback her senses were giving her.
She imagined herself a rock in the middle of a coursing river; she was powerless to do anything but feel. Goosebumps, rising from her skin, followed in due course. Before he noticed them, and that she was awake, was her favourite time of this daily exercise. For that brief moment, she imagined her goosebumps as dormant lightbulbs in the gloom, and as his tongue marched slowly up and down her back, they would light up the blackness; brief pinpricks that sparked fast and faded quickly, yet a comforting trail nonetheless.
Matt Querzoli wrote this. Follow him or his randy publication if you liked the post, or even the bloke himself if this tickled your proverbial pickle.
