part i
The first time is like a bad first impression; so you abandon it, but it scratches the surface of your memory every now and again, irritating you into consciousness in the middle of a moment of tranquil reverie. It had been pungent with force, as if pushing your senses into a corner, like a schoolyard bully hovering over your crumpled ego; it had you over the edge, questioning why on earth anyone would like it, much less commit to it unwaverlingly, like it was their daily cup of coffee.
So the years pass and you grow up and old, having forgotten about that first time. Others come, new ones are discovered and fuel your daydreams, no longer disturbed. The world becomes a wide open space, adding to your experience, adding to your shelf of collections: an erotic Asian night with the heady notes of incense and black orchids; a jaunt in a Provençal field of lavender on a summer afternoon, the air thick with insects and floating wheat pollen; a lazy sunday afternoon in Paris, in bed with a tall glass of lemonade and the afterglow of sweaty skin; a walk through an Arabian souk and later in a harem with hookahs and loukoum; and an African adventure deep in the fragrant woods where violets spread across the soft floor and mingle with sandalwood and oakmoss.
12:39 PM | |
