Friday, April 15, 2016

Sunset on the Lighthouse (Blogophilia 8.9)

He had begun to snore as his hand slipped off the mouse and against his drink. Whiskey and water soaked his lap. Snapping awake, he reached for a towel and managed to dry off to where it didn’t look like he had wet his pants. How long he had been out? Long enough said the black screen in front of him. 
 
Tapping the key, the lighthouse came back into view. It was the best image from his last. The structure rose up behind the haunted driftwood forest, daring all those near to explore. And such adventures it held. The picture also showed how perilously close to the water to structure was. Someone said it may be a little as ten years before nature claimed it. He wanted to go back there before it washed into the sea. 
 
To go back with her. 
 
A frizzy haired apple, she was the first girl that had ever paid attention to him. And for that, he was forever grateful. She had taught him beauty was internal. 
 
Even the first encounter was unusual. Passed out and dressed in a sweatshirt and panties after a short, furious drinking session, she caught his eye. The smell of stale alcohol and vomit didn’t put him off. Another guy was bugging her to get up, using a small silver bell that was on the coffee table. She weakly tried slapping at it, turning her face toward the back of the couch. Then he pulled on the hem of the shirt, revealing the pale legs. It really wasn’t funny to him or the others in the room.
 
With a hand on the fellow’s shoulder, he told him to act his age and gave him a drink. With a grumble, he finally gave up his bothering. Sitting at a table a few beers later, a pair of chubby arms snaked around his waist, followed by a soft kiss his neck. Reflexively, his arms followed the lead as they were introduced. The girl became more animated as the night wore on. They found common interests and appreciation of good manners. 
 
Still tipsy as the entered the bedroom, she only wanted to talk. He respected the request. Talk morphed into kissing and dancing, but not loving and the sun rose on them as they waltzed. To him, she resembled a painting, still half-dressed in the growing light. With a final kiss, she ushered him out of the room and he went home.
 
A few months later he came to the beach town and ran into her waiting for a table at a restaurant. The hair was a limp mass in the humidity, but it framed the pale face better. A printed scoop necked t-shirt showed the little bit of cleavage. With a happy squeal, she hugged him. It turned out she was alone for the evening and he joined her for dinner. It was as if she had never left. As the conversation went from fish surveys, to the Fibonacci mean and finally to “Waiting for Godot”, they shared bites of each others’ meals. No one else around mattered. He was where he needed to be. 
 
They left arm in arm. Picking a bougainvillea from a bush along the street, he placed it her hair. The sun had begun to set. Looking up, the lighthouse beckoned them at the far end of the harbor. They arrived to find it closed. A shake found the door unlocked. With naughty and knowing looks, they went in. The 122 steps to the top went by in flash. Panting, they reached the balcony door and she pulled him through. 
 
The iron landing was the platform to watch the passing boats. The fading sunlight reflected in their eyes as they leaned in on each other. A dolphin broke the surface behind a trawler about fifty yards out, looking for a free meal. In the shadows of the fading light, the whole scene became an aphrodisiac. Soft lips hid a tongue tasting of chocolate silk pie and Chardonnay. Cloth ebbed with the tide. Their pale bodies shone against the black paint. It didn’t matter if anyone watched. The public declaration of love was their raison d’ĂȘtre. The homely are as sexy as everyone else and we refuse to hide. 
 
It was long past dark before they were spent. As before, she gave a small kiss before she sent him away. Again, a promise was made to meet, but it never was to be. 
 
So much time had passed since then. He had married and divorced. She had not ever had a significant relationship, as far as he knew. And here he was, thirty five years later wondering whether she was well.
Pouring more whiskey in the glass, he typed her name in the box. There were no close matches. Switching over to images, he saw one or two that looked close. But when he clicked through, they turned out false. It wasn’t surprising. Even back then, she didn’t like photographs. Adding the city where he knew she lived last, helped. The address and phone number came up. He reached for the phone…and stopped.
 
Maybe it was better to let the dead rest.
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Topic-Dahlia Ramone
Pic-Dave Rader
Pic Guesses: Frozen, Ice Station Zero, Grizzly Man, Call of the Wild, Coca Cola Commercial, The Embrace.

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