Waves
And I say to the eyes:
Do not look at the beautiful temp, standing there with her back slightly to you, reaching up into the files. Do not look into the long, looping ringlets of her auburn hair, do not look into her eyes when she turns back to you. Do not study the shape of her 25 year old body, the curve of the hips, the little puff around the belly, the pale, freckled skin, too tender no doubt for the burning light of a summer sun. And do not look at those lips with the smile that is always there.
And I say to the ears:
Do not listen to the song she is humming, hints of a refrain in that soft Irish voice, lilting whispers of another world, far away from the office.
And I say to the penis:
Take all this beauty and make an object for yourself out of it, think nothing but sex of her. It is the crude outlines and pieces of a woman that matter - not this otherworldy thing of loveliness, here like magic amongst the grey of the shelves.
But the penis stays quiet.
And I say to the soul:
Beat it.
But the penis still stays quiet.
And I say to the you:
You have the idea now.
And I search around the whole of his body and mind for something to kill off the feeling. A joke, a crude thought, a work-related remark, a stifled-burp, an itching anus...
"What are you singing?" he asks her.
She turns, beautiful, smiling, beaufitul, and pauses, beautiful, and looks up, beautiful, and whispers the tune to herself... But she doesn't know.
And now, all for the fist to do is run through the waves of his hair, and the waves running over his face, waves from another universe spreading over the face of this dry man in an drab office, this 9-5 man, this dull and polite man, waves running up underneath his eyes, and tickling around his ears, and pulling at his cheeks, his mouth, waves from an image of loveliness, waves from a song that whispers out of nowhere sweet nothings to anyone, waves from the air and sung back into the air, but not by him, and -
"It sound like 'Let's Twfist Again'".
She's turned back already.
"Like what did you say?"
"Like 'Let's Twist Again'." He does a jokey rendition.
"Haha!" she replied, having to laugh because he manages her. "Nothing like it!"
And I say to myself:
Job done.
Do not look at the beautiful temp, standing there with her back slightly to you, reaching up into the files. Do not look into the long, looping ringlets of her auburn hair, do not look into her eyes when she turns back to you. Do not study the shape of her 25 year old body, the curve of the hips, the little puff around the belly, the pale, freckled skin, too tender no doubt for the burning light of a summer sun. And do not look at those lips with the smile that is always there.
And I say to the ears:
Do not listen to the song she is humming, hints of a refrain in that soft Irish voice, lilting whispers of another world, far away from the office.
And I say to the penis:
Take all this beauty and make an object for yourself out of it, think nothing but sex of her. It is the crude outlines and pieces of a woman that matter - not this otherworldy thing of loveliness, here like magic amongst the grey of the shelves.
But the penis stays quiet.
And I say to the soul:
Beat it.
But the penis still stays quiet.
And I say to the you:
You have the idea now.
And I search around the whole of his body and mind for something to kill off the feeling. A joke, a crude thought, a work-related remark, a stifled-burp, an itching anus...
"What are you singing?" he asks her.
She turns, beautiful, smiling, beaufitul, and pauses, beautiful, and looks up, beautiful, and whispers the tune to herself... But she doesn't know.
And now, all for the fist to do is run through the waves of his hair, and the waves running over his face, waves from another universe spreading over the face of this dry man in an drab office, this 9-5 man, this dull and polite man, waves running up underneath his eyes, and tickling around his ears, and pulling at his cheeks, his mouth, waves from an image of loveliness, waves from a song that whispers out of nowhere sweet nothings to anyone, waves from the air and sung back into the air, but not by him, and -
"It sound like 'Let's Twfist Again'".
She's turned back already.
"Like what did you say?"
"Like 'Let's Twist Again'." He does a jokey rendition.
"Haha!" she replied, having to laugh because he manages her. "Nothing like it!"
And I say to myself:
Job done.
posted by Fist at 16:35
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