Pleasure

In the left corner of the room smoke billows towards the ceiling licking upon nicotine stained paint. In the shadow of an open window, a figure sits, looking upon an empty street lit by the light of human creation. Her eyes cast guilt and judgment upon each shadow and reflection that her squinted eyes pick up. In the back right corner of the room there exists a bed, though to call it a bed would be kind. It more accurately represents a space in which to lay. Laying beneath stained sheets lies another solitary figure. Although there exists two human beings within the confinements of four walls, there exists an intolerable loneliness which hangs in the air, adding a mist of despair and agitation. Both figures are naked. Both are silent. To the left of her there hangs a picture. The only picture. It is abnormally bright and cheerful with bright impressionist colours, and a robust thickness that conveys impatience, but mild reflection. It hangs at eye level, slightly askew. 

The rustle of crusty sheets interrupts silent thought. Eyes fall upon the sleeping figure in the back right corner of the room. A bare foot taps the cold floor, working in a strange rhythm. The room smells cold, heavy. A frost is noticeable on the thin paned windows. She lowers her hand, still holding the smouldering cigarette. The light glow of the end casts shadows onto her visage. Her lips are thin, with the left side of her mouth permanently risen, as if a string holds it in a half grimace. He hand is held aloft, echoing the same puppeteering image, with a finger out stretched in 50's elegance. 

The foot stops tapping. The heel is held upright, ridged. When looking at the foot alone it calls to mind the foot of a deceased, caught in rigor mortis, as if the departed was killed in mid-step, fleeing. He stirs. 

Her eyes widen, but not in fear. There exists a mist in her blue eyes. Some would call it love, others passion, but she calls it pleasure. Her leg curves, her back straightens, and her hand tightens upon the burnt filter. His head lifts, and he roles unto his back. Pale brown hair rests lightly upon a yellow pillow. Eyes lift open, beckoning her. A smile plays across his tired lips, matching his half opened eye lids. A man at ease. 

His eyes follow her. Her pale legs reflect in the morbid light, adding death like beauty to her youthful contours. Her walk, as her smile and pose, summons images of strings, delicately controlling her movement causing her to glide across the bare wooden floor, unhindered by gravity. Light plays across her bare back, bringing forth images of darkness, decadent playfulness. Jaws, teeth, and claws splay across her arched back, melding with the scars that lay painted and pale. 

She lowers herself slowly to the floor, her knees touching ever so lightly, grazing the frozen floor. A shiver wavers through her body, the only signal of her humanity, of her existence in this world. He raises his hand and strokes her cheek, resting his thumb upon her bottom lip. His index finger rests at the corner of her left eye, just below her brow. 

His eye lids lower, though his smile remains vaguely on his lips, ghost like. There comes the feeling that if one simply squints, they will be able to see the same smile laying transparently upon his lips. She climbs slowly beneath the sheets, feeling his body, his skin, upon her own. Her breath quickens, her heart beats faster. His presence sends fire and ice through he veins. She feels her entire being tighten. She lays upon the bed softly, stroking the air with her hands, with a puppeteers smirk curled over her yellow teeth.