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remembering

Closing the door behind her, she left a trail of clothes in her wake as she made her way to the bed. The first was the rough-hewn linen scarf, a dangly little thing, that made a sensuous puddle on the floor. She stumbled a little as it coiled around her dainty toes, nearly missing a step. Willfully, she shook it off, and proceeded to unwind her stockings.


Purple. Puuurrrr-ple. The harsh P, proceeded by and preceding itself. In between the spitting tongue is the sensuous, throaty u. Purrp. Purp. Then, like a low moan of despair, it rounds off the enactment of desire with a guttural groan. Pronounced deliberately, each letter is removed, given a licking down, before it proudly takes its place back in the wholeness of its sense, its sensuality.

 

Grasping the stocking by its rim, her sweaty hands caress her thigh as the stocking reveals pale, white flesh, unwaxed shrubs of hair dotting the well-toned limb. She doesn’t rush; she sees no need to. Inch by inch, a calf muscle, undefined but languorous, inexorably comes into being, peeking into the dim incandescent light. She uxoriously gives it a caress, slowly rubbing away the cares of day, of life, of living.

 

When I say purple, it isn’t the colour that comes to mind. Rather, it is the way one has to curl one’s tongue to give the word a being separate entirely from its morphemes. Instead of a hesitating ‘purple’, one has to give the word its climax within the throat, where the larynx rubs itself, clit-like, in rolling the groan into its essence. Roll, curl, surround, echo, climax, vanish.

 

She stretches her legs, waving them nonchalantly. The room is a dump. She proceeds to remove her blouse; it has no buttons. She shrugs it off easily, and it falls to the floor. Unclothed, statuesque, she has no qualms about her body. It isn’t pretty; but it isn’t ugly either. Her long forearms reach to her back, blindly searching for the hook that unclaspes, unsecuring that insecurity that comes with being concealed. She stares at her body in the mirror on her wardrobe, catching a glimpse of the gentle, unprepossessing contours that make up her bosom.

 

Purple. It isn’t a snappy colour, it doesn’t catch the attention. It has none of the flirtatiousness of orange, nor the ‘fuck-me’ holler of limey green. It doesn’t have the vulgarity of red, nor the pretentious chastity of pink. It is concealed and unconcealed, my ereignes and event, that unconcealment and revelation of the everyday, that which goes by unnoticed, but comes full-fleshed, unabashedly, baring its soul to my being.

 

Things that are lost deserve to be remembered.

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