Nectarine
I watch her. Light, cold from the fridge dissipates the gloom of the kitchen, turning murky again as indistinct shadows lap at her edges. Poise. Her soft curves at once appearing and disappearing as she plays tacitly with the milky glow. She has her own shadows. The red has subsided and given way to darker kisses. Her thighs hide then momentarily reveal his attention; now subtle: then violent. Black whorls of haem: breasts; thighs; buttocks; obstinate and rude; cartographic; a quiet narrative tale of her adventure and acquiescence. Each subtle movement revealing further contour lines: from the pale alabaster of her skin graduating to sharper, aching colours, developing in monochrome detail, marking the intense change in altitude of foothills, valleys and hills. Her purpose is indistinct, but she’s hungry. Sugar isn’t enough. It needs to …