Here
in the fresh hangar of their private cabaret, the cinnabar lane
gathers
up
the dusty dreams of the dessert she had planned and shakes them off.
He
is into speleology and she, in soft, pink tinged, handmade camisole,
close
to the skin, admits to being an epicurean, a never satiated gourmet.
The
epic coq au vin she just prepared has hit the spot and for dessert,
millefeuille,
presented on her best Bakelite, filled with sweet,
somewhat
thick qumquat jam fresh from the tree just outside the window
of
their romantic Mediterranean hideaway, a stones throw from the Orange
Coast.
Home
to Our Lady of Loreto, this has become their
Balarean Island,
where
they conjure nightly bonfires in her velvet boudoir flush with ju-ju.
Tonight
she serves up a mean Baby,
Baby, Baby, just
a jigger of Stoly,
a
little less Grand Marnier and half a jigger of Baileys, swished and
swirled
over
cracked ice and strained into a pony glass that glistens like the
black
Patin
leather and chrome stool, modernist, slick a bit uncomfortable.
Both
so tired of being propped up like that, he makes her a Woo
Woo
all
peachy and tart with cranberry. They unpack the Theremin and begin
a
slow dance. Soon the calyx, campanula and baby’s breath bouquet
begins
to emit sounds all smooth, spooky and innocent. They both whisper
mon
cherie and yes,
even the cicadas chime in. This is no mare’s nest,
they’ve
hung up the magic carpet and their bathysphere is complete.
No
joke. Their jouissance unfolds and they float, flesh swaying so
gently
they
even forget to take off their shoes, so deliquescent they are with
delight.