This must be how a plane in distress feels when inexplicably a runway appears. Elation that within a hopes distance life is present. The wide opening of the eyes, disturbed breathing gains confidence, incoherent speech grows eloquent just from the mere sight.
I could have passed on that day having felt that I had led life to fulfillment. Any events after that were a thing of fairytale. The water had already been running before I reached there. Towel on my left shoulder, the flip flop of my slippers alluded to my approach. To this day I attest that it was all premeditated, still she denies it; but such view isn’t stumbled upon by mere chance.
There she stood, alone, water running down her body. The steam visible both below and above the half length curtains. The curtains had been cut at the bottom. There wasn’t a viable reason to have done so. Why would someone want to bathe leaving exposed the most enticing parts of the human body. I didn’t question until after I had feasted, way after. In fact, very many weeks after.
I walked looking down. I had slipped too many times just following the same path to the outside bathroom. This time I was going to ensure that I wouldn’t fall pray to gravity. Once I was close enough I looked up. At first I saw her ankles, then quickly noticed that not just her ankles were visible, but up to just a few inches above her fertility. I couldn’t react at first. I simply absorbed.
The water trickled down coupled to bubbles of soap. It ran rapidly south bound in a hurry to massage her supple nature. She was barren of hair, but not truly all. Foretelling of her essence was a small column of trimmed hair. It stopped just shy of meeting the start of the lips. Water traced in and out of the trimmed hairs, following intertwined paths built on hair follicles that pointed down and diagonally from the outside in. The water rushing down her belly seemed to think of the hair path as some type of sand clock where speed was gained after passing through the aperture. The lack of hair covering her that far south revealed the smile lacked by the Mona Lisa.
The Mona Lisa is acclaimed to be the most sung about work of art, yet I’m here to tell you that Leonardo would have drawn differently had he been witness to the view that stood before me. Water gravitated down towards the slightly open smile. Some droplets would weaken, unable to hold on, they’d fall splattering down on the ground. The stronger ones would curve in, caressing, moistening the smile coming out to visibility again down her inner thighs. More than a few times her hands came down, pushing the lips aside, sliding her hand around in a cleansing manner. For me it wasn’t cleansing what I saw, but a peek into a world of fiction. A world that saw me kneeling before her. My tongue trapping the water escaping from her smile, ready to penetrate, to kiss as if this was the last time I was to see her.
The times where mounds of bubbles came rushing down, suffocating her, I imagined it was remains of our encounter left behind rejecting the idea that they had to depart as well. Staying as long as they could, drenching themselves on her aroma. Thoughts of my continuous flow that drenched her soothed my desires. I saw her covered in me, and instead of a rapid flow of water from her smile, a slow, almost halted drip. All of it too enticed by the smile to want to depart. Touching, caressing, soaking, absorbing, adoring her.
She wasn’t the type of smile that doesn’t fully open. Nor was it the type of smile where there is dearth of lips attributed to a lack of development, rather full lips creating the glory of the twenty third letter of the English Alphabet. Giving us the reason why only three letters follow it in the alphabet: it’s the dwindling down necessary to cool off after such a height. My stance would find me kneeling, squatting, standing, recycling them again and again attempting to appreciate the view to a totality.
My body had reacted long ago, but when she turned around displaying a rear view of that smile. Now, I had to rush in…