The Novel-less Novelist

Dear Bella

You were so beautiful.

I was drunk, of course, but not just on the rum. I was intoxicated with the freedom of an international vacation, with the thrill at having travelled independently for the first time in my life, with the luxury of my foreign surroundings. And from the moment we locked eyes, I was heady with your vision, and then your scent, and eventually, your taste.

You were beautiful, as I said. You smelled like coconut. You tasted of pineapple, and later, of me.

We danced without talking, without even exchanging names.
We attracted quite a lot of attention, your black hair floating around you, my blonde locks twisting around your fingers. You were tall and graceful and your dark brown skin was smooth like rich chocolate while I was pale, just barely pinked by my two or three days in the Mexican sun.

Our lips were either the first thing to touch, or the last thing to touch. I can never remember. Either way, it was a kiss that left every man in the bar aching to go home with either you, or I, or both, and it was that kiss that inspired us to leave only with each other.

I remember snatches of that night: the roundness of your belly; my legs spread like the wings of a butterfly; the smell of the crisp hotel sheets; the sound of the waves gently lapping at the beach just outside; the way the shadows kissed your curves; the salinity of your skin; the way your name felt in the back of my throat.

You left on a plane home the next morning.
I'd never been with a woman before, nor have I since, nor am I likely to again.
You were enough.
I loved you briefly, but hard.

And sometimes I love you still, but only in dreams.

posted by Jay @ 10:28 PM