Henrietta

“A woman like me does not falls in love”

    The wave of the sea rumbling in mimick of the waves of syllables howling in the ocean of her thorax tend a glaze of irony. That was exactly what she’d meant, which she’d stressed earlier. Those words were not to convince the Youth seated beside her at the shore of the Sea, twas exactly how twas meant to be and be said. She traveled her gaze through the track inscribe in the wholeness of the Youth, regarding how his mien jerked to the debative assertion.
    To him, neither understatement nor over statement soothe the dexterity of the single sentence she’d said earlier. What sort of lady says that? Not even with a sweat of regret leaving mocking tracks scattered on her forehead? The insinuation of the sentence tossed blur semantic connotations and denotation. He wanted to ask a question, he knew he would succumb to that urge but wielding the sentence with sentience left him undecided. So long a battle between his instinct and knowledge, he knuckled under leaving his thorax do the justice:

     “Like seriously? “

     He regretted saying that. Was he supposed to say that? Wasn’t he supposed to come from a distinct angle with his point? He scolded his swift tongue as well as the stooping heart but was liberated by a faint smile sketch on her phizog as she looked toward him without a link of disappointment in war with the smile:

     “Is that hard to believe?”

      She looked down now, considering whether or not she’d given herself out so soon to him. Well, that was of no importance now, the unbridled tongue had had its way. She stood from beside him, truncated the pace between the part of the shore they were seated and the wailing sea herself. She wanted to ease her muscles, liberate the remonstrating vein, make herself what she’d looked like at birth, swing her whole into the harmless arm of the sea, to be cuddled by it’s torrent, embraced by it’s waves and flung to and fro in gaiety -like a father do his little shaver- by the sea. No, she couldn’t do that, that was just a mirage, an illusion, phantom, silhouette, that’re not concrete. Not right while he sit there would she do that. She thrust her gaze to the horizon, reminiscing on the lean belief she’d one had as a littlun : the heaven slopes straight into the horizon of the sea, and therefore, to visit heaven, the only thing to be done is just find your way to the horizon and use an invisible ladder. Was that true? She might have agreed with that disposition, but not with seeing right before her a canoe, though like a sketch of a bath, brushing through the lip of the horizon. She mused a bit farther, but remembered David was left behind her and decided to return. She played her hand into the lean wave of the sea, cupped her palm, took body of the waters and washed her face eyes closed. She returned to him as he met her with another question : still on his seat though.

      “Which ways go to the sea? “

    She’d asked a question earlier which he hadn’t proffered an answer. Perhaps he’d forgotten, she refused to hear her tongue utter that. For that would save her a lot of stress.
    She smiled, frowned, looked across the  sea, studied it stealthily, fixed a long gaze as though a mermaid exports the riposte. Then, she spoke, averting the intensity of his pupils:

    “Swimming, Paddling Canoe, Jerking boats, Ships and other element that could float on water, resisting the temptation of its coziness to come in for leisure.”

      “I see, you have your ways with words”

     Was that a praise? He wasn’t sure. The owner of the sentence couldn’t decipher his craft. He held her gaze with his, giving her the impression of, I-want-to-hear-you-say-more.
      She was a good observer, she could decode that immediately they leapt at her. She smiled. A genuine one now. Didn’t know why she had to trust his presence, a man you met a day before, who demanded a time together at the seashore, for discussion, as he’d said, but she’d not given it to him at request, intervals of date would accord respect. She sustained that gaze now, more real, more romantic, every of her part were sensitive to that. Even the mouth is veiled to the heart. Time to say something before he suspects.

       “All ways go the sea.”

      Was that the right way to resume the discuss?  Who cares?

        “From an hale perspective, you want to believe that the earth itself is surrounded by the sea. Then, if that be truth, would you concur with me that all ways go the sea? “

        He never disputed her. Was she right. Perhaps she was fiddling with his intelligence. She was sensitive alright, but careful altogether. His look seemed to metamorphose, she could discern. Perhaps, he was held in remote thoughts. She never mind, wanted to ask a question: ‘Is that true’, but was shunned by his interrupting chip off old block.
     He stood abruptly, paced a little while, his mind blank, the heart yet to register a clause for assessment and approval there before it’s being sent to the mouth for exposure of personality. He returned to her, fixed his buttocks on the usual spot. Just in time, she saw what her eyes had skipped. A trace of the shape of love on the portion of sand next to her, done justifiably by a finger, which if she was not mistaken was his. About to ask him, he cut in : the second time!

       “Which way goes to you? “

        She wasn’t sure she had that clearly. Perhaps, she did but refused to admit. Did that matter? She was trying to have a psychosmotic view of where he was coming from, but the truth was, she never saw that coming. Perhaps, she was too busy with her feelings to accommodate guesses.
        She looked away from him, restored her gaze on him, looked over him, did a snooty smile, mild one and then a genuine one. He knew something was coming, but she didn’t keep him waiting.

        “You do have your ways with words”

        That was a payback. No offense taken. He allowed a smile sank in his physiognomy,  permeating it with sought-goal-truncated-but-efficient.
         He took her left hand with his right, lifted her up with himself, she allowed him.  Then, deep into her pupils, he surveyed the gentility enthroned there, he wouldn’t  be bewitched by the mildness, he knew what he wanted. He always do. Even when his father gave him choices to make, he chose the ranch of all his properties. Perhaps, she would be the mother, nature had kept from him for past decades. She should be!
       He couldn’t control himself any longer, they were in eyes-contact now, full-growth-eyes-contact. He felt a wave, urge or force, he couldn’t decipher, tilting his head towards hers, it was from the inside. He closed his eyes, were his thoughts accurate?  He could not trust anything at that moment, not even his heart. In a jiffy, he felt a soft element leaning on his lips, or his leaning on them. He felt it, it was soft like what he couldn’t allot a description. The owner of the lips responded, leaving him breathless for five minutes as though a second. None was ready to enforce an halt, the pleasure, passion was strong. Perhaps, they guy’s supporting the lady’s.
      Too long a minute, he let the lips go, he hadn’t planned  to have it this way, neither had she. He hadn’t planned to kiss her, neither she. Nothing to regret, the passion is registered, though love is uncertain.
      She looked away from him, had she done the stupidest thing ever? A talk to a kiss? She wouldn’t want to regret, she couldn’t. It seemed she’d found the long missing link. She looked back at him, gave him the all of her smile, stepped back a little, unclasp her hands, and edged her way to the arm of the sea to be curdled.
      Now, she can do the bathing.



   19:03:13:06:03

Ancestor. Ancestral Pen. Ancestral stories. Henrietta