Two short bits #494

Two of my poems transposed into short, short stories or texts.  This was a challenge by one I love, to show that, while thinking of myself only as a writer of poetry or essays, I am in fact capable of writing something in story form.

 

I never asked

I never questioned why she was nervous about some things.  In her own time she might be ready to tell me; in the meantime, I’ve always said that interrogation is no substitute for conversation.

I sometimes called the thing between us an ‘iron curtain’.  It wasn’t opaque or impermeable; I could see and hear her perfectly well, and even hold her hand and kiss her.  But somehow we never seemed to be on the same side of the barrier, and it was not my choice.   Jumping over it was pointless, and anyhow it would be an invasion of her private space, not ever to be done unless I was asked to cross.  It was too wide, not by measurement but by some imaginary dimension.

It was clear that some strong feeling gave her the wish to keep herself at a distance; a distance at which she could feel safe.  As long as she had it, there was no way an attacker, animal or human, could come upon her unawares. Well, I think that was how she perceived it.

To me, the situation was quite different. Whatever it was, whatever fell beast or influence she was keeping at bay, her efforts were futile. As I saw it, whatever it was she so feared was already there, behind her back, unseen,  but in the perfect position to strike.  She seemed to have no idea that the invader had arrived long before.

It was in her own mind.  I could only speculate what horrible experience, what assault, what abuse might once have taken place.  There was no visible sign of any physical injury, but that proved nothing.  Some scars are deep and never show on our outside.  To me, her beauty was near to perfect, and my love for her carried a component of fierce anger against whoever had done this to her.

© Malcolm Miller 29.3.2013

Dusty feet

Women’s feet have always interested me.  Only one woman in a thousand has really beautiful feet, but that has never stopped m from looking.  To me, bare feet are a metaphor for a naked body; if a woman will take off her shoes for you, what will she not take off if you are persuasive enough?

She told me that she didn’t want me to touch her feet, because they were dusty.  I sort of understood her fastidiousness, which was because she really wanted me to see her as beautiful.  She really did take off her shoes, and if her feet were dusty, that didn’t change their shape or their nature.  I still felt like kissing each small toe, each curved surface of arch and instep, since all were part of her whom I adored

These pale skinned, flawless feet,  were ready to carry the body I loved into my embrace, for my caresses.  Dust is external, but true beauty is from within, its shapes immune from random dirt.  If dust was on her feet so intimately, why should not I be as  eager to be at least as close to every part of her body?

© Malcolm Miller 2013