The house I live in, has windows with burgundy sashes that open to miles of green downs and farther up the horizon, one could see the meadows sprinkled with black dots in the mornings and ghostly whites at night that occurred in pairs.
I like pleats in my skirts; flouncing and pirouetting, as the swell of the silk settles with a swoop, on the quilt mattress of my giant bed, I see the whorl of a flower forming around my haunches. Then as if the waves on shore recede with a silence that stings the ear, the satin fabric discordantly chugs with a flimsy gait and settles around my loins. Its many lapping pleats stained with velvet flowers and green branches tussle with one another as I launch myself into an imperfect gait.
Years before, one night, a young man lifted the iron girdle and knocked on the heavy wooden doors of my castle. Strands of hair flashed to the right of his brow; his eyes gleaming with curiosity. Puckered between his supple lips, he held a pipe and broached the subject of stay. I allotted him my bedroom upstairs.
Moonlight found in its way, tall trees that fidgeted through the sinuous branches its many broad leaves. Upon the bedroom window, they squeezed and pampered the young man. Sauntering the mellow of his dreams, night after night, moonlight inflicted him; traveller though, my bedroom with its mellifluous grip enchanted him. He no longer wished to leave. In the tight folds of the drapes, I crouched in the shadow and watched him sleep every night. The curl of his arm, the bend of his ankle, mauve of his mane and melody of his breathing ensorcelled my fragile person. I watched in silence as his leonine head furrowed into the golden crusted pillow; at midnight, I stepped out of my haven and smelt the warm air he exhaled.
Cupboards in the room were swollen with damp as my heart was with his salacious glow. The young man with hairy chest resting on my thickly enamelled cot that stood on lion’s paws piqued my interest in him. The high raised headrest with its rows of drip pattern left by the recent varnishing, drew me into a spell. I could not hold myself anymore. Standing by the bedside, I collected, with my index finger, the silvery saliva that escaped his plump lips. I rushed to the kitchen evading moonlight, lest the finger is exposed. Once there, I proceeded to mix it with the fuming concoction I prepared the other night. Boiled the mixture under blue gushing flame for four hours, and before it was dawn, my labour was finished. Pouring the residue out of the beaker into a tumbler full of broth, I waited meditatively for the lion of my heart to wake up.
Presently, on the window sill, a pair of pigeons pecked at each other’s feathers. Their feet are spindle-like and skin on them, plaited as my hair, with folds of blood red layers interwoven with brick wood. Over the years, I have had the occasion to witness seasons envelop this tall mansion, one after another in each other’s embrace. At night, I hear the distant cries of wolf; pressing my keen ear against the plastered walls, I hear too, the sound of wind wallowing in its nocturnal habit.
My tight bodice I like; sitting on the bow shaped winding staircase, I deny supplying my dug to the infant who crawls pitifully at my feet. Digging its teeth into the damp woollen carpet beneath, it sighs and paws ploddingly. Hinges of the bedroom doors squeak upon turning; patches of wood splinters are caught into my night overall.
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