PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

2. Waft of Smoke

The waft of smoke from the incense mingles with the kisses. Unseen aromas made for deep breaths and filled lungs in the anticipation of caresses.  He watched her undress as they approached the bed.  Pulling her clothes off, unconsciously she felt him watching.  She stopped and watched him.  Across the big bed already rumpled from the previous night, she held the discarded shirt against her breast.  Smiled.

They had just met a few months before, but as all old souls who meet again, if was as if she had known him her whole waking life.  She felt she had been wandering asleep for decades until he said his first hello. 

“Hello, my beauty,” and he reached across to grab her hand as she sat across from him. 

Frightened at first by the familiarity of their conversation, she pulled back.  A loud patron at the next table made them roll their eyes and contain themselves to silence until the gentleman would take a breath or bite leaving the air free for conversation.

“So, where are you originally from?” comes the questions we all ask, “Not from around here, I gather?”

No, he from Chicago, she from the world.  A military gypsy, brat they’re called, she grew up on army posts around the world.  He, a theatrical gypsy, had travelled to continents she had never set foot in. She was fascinated by the glamour of scouting locations, but he laughed, with a shake of the head.

“Not so glamorous,” missed connections and unpaying producers, malaria and unsettle governments dimmed my envious enthusiasm.

The meal eaten and forgotten, they continued to talk.  He had already sampled her plate, finished it for her in fact.  Familiar with the menu, she had ordered a colorful salad, he a drab crab cake.

When she had eaten her fill, each tasting a bite from the other’s, she asked, “Would you like the rest?  I’m quite full.”

His eyes, wide at the comfort level they had already reached, heartily agreed and exposed the bottom of the plate in a hurry.

“Dessert? We have a Crème Brule, but it might take a few minutes to make.  Would you like that?” the waitress asked.

Deciding between more time with him and her distain for crème Brule, she finally confessed her dislike of anything not chocolate. They had the Brownie Sundae. Two spoons in a dueling match for the syrup, she had the last bite.

The loud patron still booming, louder with each sip from his glass, we slipped out of the “quiet “ corner he had requested.  Out into the evening, she asked for more time.  Did he have to leave?

“No, not yet.” So they sat in her car. A cold but not freezing night, his black over coat filled the front seat.  They were warm enough as they continued the conversation as if in a sound booth after the noises of the restaurant.

Music, girl jazz singers for him, she blues crooners and women folk singers. An over lap of quite a few jazz greats, he would later covet her playlist for its seduction and siren ladies.

There would not be a kiss.  She had a cold.  He had a grandchild she didn’t want to expose.  He gave her the hug, who knows who proposed it, but here is where the old souls met.

The Hug  I could write a poem here or continue the novel….