Girl on a bridge

(written a little while ago with a female narrator, something I try occasionally)

Summer time beats up lives, and consequences spread far beyond autumnal fall. The heat, the laziness, the empty time, all too tempting, days galloping into others, no boundaries of occupation or study, no barriers to emotions, no decorum. But maybe just dulce et decorum est mori.

He found me whiling away life in a coffee shop of no repute, serving capricious cappuccinos and  lecherous lattes to smooth-leering son-of-bitches, lazing louchely in chairs, cigarettes suggestive, gold chains goading, eyes tracing legs and rears like hunters at a waterhole.  Tapping tabletop with platinum card he beckoned, no words, a glance at cold gritted remains deep engrained in a cup. I smiled, wondering what dust he inhaled at night on that card.

His eyes crawled after me, felt their way up stockinged legs, across bloused top and I shudder where else. The tip beneath the saucer suggested caffeine was not the only stimulant he sought. Tucking it discreetly, knowing he watched afar, grin growing at the little girl gratified, I ran a hand through locks of auburn light and walked unturning.

Expresso became lunch, light and oiled, refusing service unless me. Dodging withering words mouthed by fly-by-night waitresses, I attended attentively, drawn by eyes and attitude, and money and freedom. A wrist caught signified stakes updated, long fingers encircling skin and bone, a clasp of ownership.

Eyes met; mine questioned, his laughed.

A finger unwound, grazed hairs, electrifying erotica. Eyes remained; mine unsure, his demanding. Hand slid up, curling under elbow, drawing down, no resistance encountered.

Eyes burned; mine curious, his victorious.

Words whispered, swarming inside my ear, twisting and seducing, curling up at home. Releasing, he knew the answer, before me, as I moved violated yet beguiled.

Returning relentlessly, his table my world, each visit vicarious, each order a slice off my life. Hands clasped, fingers resting on hips, arms encasing shoulders, my personal space became his, my time bought, my freedom confined.

An evening stroll, warm breeze humming with hubris, he promised his world; travel tantalising on heated horizons, clothes wardrobed along streets of couturiers, villas visualised reflected in Mediterranean blue. I fought sense and sensibility; and lost, lost in a world unknown, a world portrayed in magazine gloss, a heart smothering worries, a summer long odyssey of love’s many ports beckoning.

Crossing the bridge, from my world to his, my Rubicon step one late simmering evening, I met his stare, breathed in the embrace, intoxicated with worship. The path walked on, deeper to his sphere, no villa unveiled, no yacht’s yawl bobbing, no jewels jousting in fingers. Darker the wood, my heart shrank back, lifting the layered rose-tint. I felt his hands true at last, the touch severe, the skin coarse, the rapid throb of veins beneath.

Querying the quest, his eyes turned, honed for violence, pretence pretentious, grip swung sharp. I fell, as deception fell away too, a victim awaiting.

Now I sit upon the bridge, the prodigal returned, unsure if innocence can be re-won, bloodied stone resting in deep depths beneath, cast off like my foolishness, resting wet and cold, as he does, under a tree, life-blood feeding the earth.