May I? Day One

For May I'll be blogging a daily writing excersize, along with some others from the Google+ social network.  Springtime is the season for rebirth and for love, so the prompts might tend toward the sensual side; on this blog I'll keep things as tame as you've grown accustom to. These will all be written pretty much in the space of a single, one-way commute on the train, which will give some immediacy and raw energy.



So, without further ado,

Day 1:  Forbidden Bite


It's late when you walk into the bar, but not full-late. That inbetween hour.The investment bankers are halfway home, the warmth of the night's second martini spreading warmth through their bellies and the hipsters still lurk in theirsecret hipster nests, not yet emerging for their nightime diet of cheap beer and expensive tequila. Your feet hurts, your back hurts. Your soul hurts.You need a drink.
This place is  cool, dark.  You can barely make her out at the bar. A figure barely visible to eyes still soaked in blood-orange dregs of late summer sunlight. Step closer, miss a downward step, feel a tightening in your gut as her gravity yanks you downward and in.
she's perched on the barstool, shoulders back, head balanced atop a long neck, blond hair swept back with the kind of wild abandon it takes hours to achieve. Her skin, her body, her posture are all young and vibrant but when her eyes meet yours they are deep and violet an so very old from far away you hear the bartender, deep violet eyes, dark red lips the sound of icecubes rattling in a shaker like tiny white teeth so sharp.

 Image from riezu on DeviantArt ( http://riezu.deviantart.com/ )
under a (CC BY-NC-ND 3.0)
 http://Riezu.deviantart.com/art/Sensual-131596303

You shake your head as you reach for the drink, already built, unasked for. It glows amber in the halflight, a dark red cherry resting at the bottom of the glass, its stem languidly draped against the side. A if from far away, you let her reach for your glass, watch darkred painted fingernails penetrate the liquid surface, pinch the cherry by its stem lift it toward those dark-stained lips. You don't know her, don't trust her, but don't stop her. The smell the raw alcohol, watch as lips and tiny teeth part to take an impossibly sharp impossibly precise bite,  a gibbous halfmoon of cherry left behind dangling from still attached stem. With a whisky-scented amber splash the mutilated fruit drops back into the glass.

Your eyes leave hers as you fish it out, take the cherry to your lips. The flesh is jagged where she bit, soft and warm against your tongue. It spills drops effortlessly from the stem onto your tongue. You cast the stem aside, sip the drink. Cold on your lips, thick and silky in your mouth, pleasantly burning down your throat, hot in your gut and through your veins. Warmth fills you, to your legs and arms and the back of your neck and into your brain and your eyes and tongue warm now from the inside and outside. She looks different now. Sharper, even as the rest of the world loses focus. You sip again, lean against the wood of the bar. Your eyes close.

Warmth, now from the outside. Grass beneath your bare limbs, an orange yellow sky above, the knowledge of dreamsand myth in your head. You ate half the cherry, and so you will spend half your time here, outside of your world.

A tension in your stomach, moisture burning in your eyes. Not for the sometime loss of home,  but for the other half you were not offered.