Journal Entry, 1833, Paris – Chéri, je’taime

All day I’ve thought of you, chéri.  The very thought of you before me – untouched innocence awaiting me – thrills me to my heart.  Today I could barely concentrate on an important agreement with a new client.  You filled my mind and I found the chatter at the obligatory luncheon annoying.  The day seemed to drag on and on, keeping me from you, where I really wanted to be.  I am impatient with the day and long for the night and you.

The memory of you when first my hungry eyes laid sight upon your deliciousness haunts me.  Then, you weren’t mine and belonged to another.  I was jealous.  I was jealous that another might savour your secret succulence that those exciting cherries of yours promised.  Your serene innocence did little to hide the delights they so suggestively tempted.  You did not fool me.  Your very silence, as you laid there showing their firm redness, seemed to beg me to taste of them and indeed, I almost lost control. 

How I desired to gather your sweetness in my hands, suckle those cherries, plunge my tongue into you and lap at the heady juices I knew you were bursting with!  You too wanted me to devour you, I could feel it. It is as if your scent teased me and beckoned to me, even as I turned away and tried to ignore your presence by moving to the other side of the room. 

My sleep is restless.  In my dreams you are calling me, tempting me.  I know in my heart that you were meant for me, only me, and I shall share you with no other!  That another should delight in you, lap at those innocent cherries, be intoxicated by you as I was by the very imagination of your juicy succulence, trace his tongue on that smooth part of you -  no!  I could not bear it.  That another should have you, would drive me to madness and I feel I would kill for you. 

I have made plans for us, my delicious, dark beauty and decided that it will be tonight.  I have spoken to my housekeeper, Madame Faustine and she has made arrangements for us to be together.  I have waited for you too long and shall wait no longer.  My desire for you consumes and tortures me. On that first night, I could only feast upon you with my eyes.  Tonight, I shall feast upon you with all my senses.

No, chéri, we shall wait no longer.  By candlelight, after a dinner of gourmet delights, courses of the finest in your honour, and you across from me, I shall celebrate you in all your sensuousness with a glass of Dom Perignon before I approach you and gently break your chastity belt.  Even in your innocence, you are purest passion and you ignite mine.  I envision a ball of purest vanilla ice cream, resting as if upon a sacred mound, to melt and tease the senses… 

I shall dessert upon you, the ultimate dessert and your voluptuous flavours and make you mine forever.  I shall take all of you into my very being – all of you! 

Editors note:  It is rumoured that the highly celebrated gourmet and epicure Monsieur Jean Verlaine continued his obsession for the Mon Chéri cake until the high age of 98.  He passed away peacefully in his sleep, no doubt dreaming of the object of his (culinary) desires. You can find the recipe in the ebook  Gourmet Chocolate Cakes & Co.  Easy and versatile, sensuous and succulent, the ebook contains dark dreams of chocolate delights and other delicious cakes and recipes.  Complete with photos and an informative guide on how YOU can make them!

Summer Peaches

In a part of my garden where several fruit trees grow, there is an old tree that gives not much fruit, but when it does, its precious gift of French peaches is admired and savoured.  Curvaceous, full and generous, French peaches have pale cream coloured, delicious fruit and an intense scent.  A hint of an indent divides, separates and defines two symmetrical halves covered with the softest down of youth and perfect skin.   A wash of pale rose blushes across the golden, sun kissed surface covering a lusciousness of perfect beauty.  It not only delights the eyes, but the sense of touch as well.  The fine down is best felt not with the fingertips but with that most sensitive part of the hand, the palm.  Or the tongue.

***

Lovely peach resting in my palm.  Holding you up to the sun, I admire the art you are - the shades of colour and perfect shape.  Dear lovely peach, of creamy flesh, full of sweet juiciness, your scent suggests a freshness yet hints at a faint note of spice, not unlike an expensive perfume – no doubt made from your blossoms.  Those two halves seem to pout and invite a gentle bite, just a first taste, then  a bigger one that will release more juice to escape down the chin and deeper unless I suck the juices in with each bite. Or bend over as I eat the fruit, allowing the precious liquid to bless the ground like a kind of holy water.  But not yet.  I am enjoying the beauty of you and the pictures in my mind you arouse of past juicy, peachy pleasures. 

How you remind me of a French paramour, whose own ‘peach’, taut and perfectly defined had also that clear divide and fine, very fine, almost transparent down.  His hobby was marathon cycling which no doubt contributed to his seemingly, almost sculptured marble form – every muscle defined as if by Michelangelo’s own hand.

As I hold you up in admiration, the sun’s rays seem trapped in that fine velvet, creating a halo of pale gold and reminding me of that tight bottom I so admired and was envious of, where once the sun also fell on a summer’s morning.  Gently, softly I pass my palm along your round contour remembering another peach, a muscled posterior, whose owner still soundly slept.

The sun was just appearing above the horizon and its first rays were beginning to spread its rosy warmth through the open window, falling on his lower back like a spotlight on a peach.  Barely grazing the golden, downy halo millimetres above his skin, I tried not awaken him and lose that moment that fascinated me so and tingled the skin of my palm. 

But it did awaken him and I really didn’t mind nor did he.  I gave in to temptation and gently bit his ‘peach’, lightly tracing my finger along that magnificent divide and delighted at the trail of goose bumps it left behind.  

Not leaving the bed, I reached for one of the fruits we had plucked the evening before which became our breakfast, shared between us with gentle laughter.  Peach juice anointed us, its perfume engulfing us like incense in a temple. 

We made delicious love…that summer morning.

(Frankfurt, + - 1992, related poem-'Tomorrow')

The Cappuccino  

“Buon giorno, Signora.  The usual?  Cappuccino?  Oh, you have bound up your hair, I see.”

“Per lei!”  It was the first time I flirted with him, so directly verbal.

“For me?  I do not understand!  Scusi, Signora if I say too much, but if it was up to me, I prefer it loose.”  His voice had a soft, tenor quality to it and reminded me of Italian opera that I so love.  It also reminded me of the interview I made with Luciano Pavarotti, his voice warm and soothing.

“I know!”  I answered, looking directly into his eyes.  For a moment, he looked puzzled, then embarrassed as the dawning came over him.

“Oh Dio, Signora!”  he whispered with a half smile.  I couldn’t help but notice how he pressed against the counter with his hips.  He looked as if his heart would leap out and betray him. Someone passed behind me and Luigi made a movement as if he was busily scooping ice-cream. 

I left him still behind the counter and walked, taking my time, to my usual table in the Café Venezia, knowing the movement of the summer dress over my hips would not be wasted.

My cappuccino was served with a warm, ‘Prego’ and an even warmer very ocular message.  I considered for a moment how delicious it would be to loose myself in those very dilated black pupils of his.

“Your eyes are dangerous, Signora.  Dio mio!”, he whispered as he once again wiped the spotless table.  He turned quickly and left.

That pleased me, and made me smile.  Sipping my cappuccino, I reflected on the past year and a half I have been coming here.  Sometimes twice a day.  I loved his Italian accent and what it did to the German he spoke-warmed it, softened it.  When did I notice the movement of his not quite shoulder length hair when he walked?

I left the coins and took my time leaving, leisurely smoothing my skirt before I sauntered out.  His gaze was thoughtful as I passed by.  “Ciao...Signora!”  The ‘Signora’ pronounced a little deeper and slower.

The short stroll led through a small, flower filled park where, on the opposite end and across the street the hair salon was located.  I had time until my hair appointment.  It was June and the weather was exceptionally warm for Germany, the air almost sultry, at least for me. I enjoyed reliving the past few minutes just...thinking.

~

For me, there is something marvelous about having my hair shampooed.  I tip the girl a bit more to massage, rather than rush through the motions of the shampoo ritual.  This time, I drifted back to my cappuccino and fantasies. I remembered the moment when Luigi pressed his hips against the counter.  I knew why.  It was for the same reason I now shifted in my chair and crossed my legs tightly.  The scalp massage worked its magic over me and I savored the drowsy feeling that overcame me.  The hands working my hair became stronger, like a lover enjoying the tangles between his fingers.  A dark eyed familiar figure slowly, very slowly bent over me and lifted my head for the first kiss . . .

The shrill laughter of another customer shocked and painfully jolted me back to reality.  Scorretto!  Unfair!  My delicious fantasy was so realistic that I resented this annoying interruption.  A smile insisted across my face against the protest of my mind.  I wondered what the shampoo girl wondered-she too, looked as if trying to suppress a smile as she ushered me to my usual chair. 

“Will it be hair up today or down, madam?”  asked Renate who owned the hair salon. 

“Down please, loose and open.  Something natural, thank you.”  I really wanted to say ‘down and wild,  something to invite fingers to tangle in’.  Another secret grin escaped.  My face warmed in response to a sudden flush of heat from somewhere more south.

I was quite pleased with the results as the girl handed me the mirror to inspect the back.  ‘Yes, that will do quite nicely,’ I thought.  I finished my errands, and found myself once again on the street of the ‘Café Venezia’, just around the corner from my apartment.  I couldn’t resist going in, couldn’t resist wanting him to suffer a bit. As I walked in, I had to suppress a laugh.  The kind of satisfied laugh when you know you’ve succeeded in making someone’s day. Ah, the little pleasures of life!  Dosed carefully, they are just as important as the major joys!  Those eyes that fascinated me so, were dilated and the open mouth eased into a very pleased grin.

“La Signora is a lioness!  You were at the hair salon?”  His eyes moved all over my hair, not daring a too lingering deeper glance.  (I really did lose the top button of my dress somewhere on the way.)  He almost spilled someone’s coffee he was passing over to the serving part of the counter.  My sympathetic look-a little teasing, lingered a moment longer as the rest of me turned toward my usual table at the back of the café.  The girl brought me my cappuccino.

“La Signora wishes something else?”  he asked a short distance away.  I started to say something as I looked up, but held my breath instead, trying to suppress the smile creeping into the corners of my mouth.   Ah, yes.  The pregnant pause skillfully applied can say so much more than words but promise nothing -  a safe ploy to be suggestive but leave an escape door open.

I never noticed the veins of his neck stand out before.

“Umm, yes!  A small bacio, without.  Grazie.”  I sighed, and dared a long gaze into his eyes.

“Here, Signora?”  he whispered.  With that, he turned quickly before anyone could notice and called out my order to the girl behind the counter.  “Small portion bacio gelati without whipped cream!”  The ‘gelati’ vocally underlined and accompanied with a darting glance to me.

Amazing, isn’t it what messages can spring between two people within seconds?  I watched him walk away - how tantalizing

he looked in his white waiter’s apron.  Tantalizing was the only word I could think of.  ‘I wouldn’t throw him out of my kitchen,’ I thought.

The girl brought my order.  Three scoops of my favourite ice-cream.  ‘Kiss’, appropriately named ‘Bacio’ in Italian.  I do enjoy Italian gelati.  Italians do make the best . . .among other things.

“Prego, Signora.”  “Grazie,” I answered, looking up and across the room into those smiling eyes.  I watched  him for a moment, re-drying a dry glass.  What a grin!  I smiled and raised an eyebrow, just once.  Then ignored him the rest of my stay.  I waited until he was busy with another table and left.  I mused how convenient it was to watch his reflection unnoticed in the mirrors.  ‘He should be thoroughly confused by now.’  I relished the thought.

The next four days found me on business in Vienna, and offered a much needed separation from ‘my Italian’.  I wondered how old he was–as if that mattered.  Viennese coffee is world famous but on this trip it lacked a special ‘something’ for me.  Surely it wasn’t the coffee beans. 

The waitresses looked quite picturesque in their starched lace caps and aprons.  Aprons, hmmm.  In my mind’s eye I imagined him slowly walking toward me, slowly un-tying his waiter’s apron...

I drew in a quick breath and shifted in my seat.  “Bezahlen, bitte.”  As I counted out the shillings and left the café for a much needed stroll, I pondered over the pros and cons of virtuousness and looked forward to my return.

('The Cappuccino' is based almost verbatim on a true episode in Frankfurt, Germany, 1992 or 1993...and yes, he did say 'I looked like a lioness', and he did have a charming Italian accent when he spoke German.  I hope he never lost it!)  

Frankfurt, Germany

submission guideline, exactly 1500 words

Featured short story May, 2000 in Charlotte Austin Review

 First Class

Today she decided on the new handknit linen and silk bulky sweater over the purple skirt. She enjoyed unusual colour combinations. The violets on the neighbour’s balcony in the old terra-cotta flowerpot were her inspiration this time. The sweater, with its intricate design was a bit darker than the pot but the skirt was true to the violets. The cognac brown shoes looked chic and were practical as well (matched the handbag quite by accident) and perfect for travelling. She swirled the brown cape and silk scarf around her shoulders. Protected against the chill of the March wind, she would hug herself in the friendship of the cape.

As usual, she had said her good-byes to her comfortable apartment, and touched the talisman by the light switch – a Hand of Fatima in silver she had purchased in Marrakech. Almost out the door, she remembered she had a pair of brown gloves, somewhere. They were of fine kid leather and she received them as part of the small inheritance from her Grandmother's testament. A bit of rummaging beneath and between purses and scarves produced a pair of three-quarter length, two button, wonderfully old fashioned gloves.

Out the door, she raced to the nearby Metro and literally jumped into the train as the doors were closing.

‘Wonderful’, she thought. ‘If I missed this one I wouldn't have had enough time to pick up the Herald and enjoy a Schumli at the main station.’ 

Twelve minutes later and at this early hour she had no difficulty finding a metre of space at the coffee bar in the Frankfurt main train station. It was a habit she enjoyed, starting off another weekend trip unstressed, sipping a coffee, standing and waiting for her train to arrive.

‘Plenty of sitting time in the train,’ she thought.

Around her, there were travellers, mixed races. There an Asian businessman, a student, commuters, a young bum high on something slumped in a corner and people waiting to meet friends. Lovers. She mused over the familiar faces. Familiar in their expressionlessness, all lost in their own thoughts. It was this facial passiveness that disturbed her. It was sometimes necessary, though. For the women, train stations and travelling alone are magnets for unwelcome and rude male attention.

   Trying to attract the waitress's attention was the opposite, however. Just beyond the waitress's profile, directly across from her, she noticed two dark haired young men engaged in animated conversation. Perhaps from Yugoslavia (though little was left of it) or Greek? The one with the curly hair was particularly attractive. They noticed her as she gave her order to the waitress.

‘Curly’ somehow managed to continue his conversation with his friend while stealing side-glances at her. Surprised at herself, she smiled and turned her attention to her newspaper. ‘Would the cease-fire in Bosnia again be broken, or was the war really coming to an end? ‘ She sighed and shook her head.

The coffee finally arrived. Her attention lost for a moment in her newspaper, she propped her elbow on the counter edge and undid the top button of her glove. The second one always needed a bit more effort and at that moment she happened to gaze across the counter. For a moment, the expressions on the faces of the two young men caught her off her guard. Did they not realise how comical they looked - both with identical expressions?  Raised eyebrows, slightly open mouths, intense eyes. Neither aware of the same look on the other's face!

She placed her gloves on the counter and couldn't help an embarrassed laugh, which seemed to snap the reality of the moment. Immediately their conversation continued. She couldn't help but turn her back as she sipped her coffee, enjoying the moment. She laughed at herself, cheeks flushed. It was as if for an instant, she had picked up on their thoughts, obviously involving more than just the glove buttons.

Again she turned back to read and drink her coffee, killing time until her train arrived. 'Curly' glanced over, this time with a warm smile and a nod. She paid her coffee, hugged the newspaper under her arm and took her time fitting the gloves on. The second button always needed a bit more effort. This time she looked straight at the pair as she worked the gloves back on and smiled, first in one set of eyes, then the other. She turned away from their wide grins and left, heading for track eight. It was time.

Jure

Jure listened with growing impatience to his friend. He reflected on their school years for a moment. In class, Vinko was known as an almost timid boy everyone teased. Now he was a politically passionate, young man getting on his nerves. Jure was tired, so tired of the civil war going on in the now Serbia, and of the endless useless, depressing verbal warring and posturing of his friends and acquaintances, most of whom like he were refugees. He and Vinko were living with his uncle in Frankfurt. He had learned the best way to deal with his friend, Vinko, was to nod appropriately at intervals and think of something else. He tuned him out. Vinko would soon quiet down if he had no verbal resistance, as usual.

His thoughts ambled elsewhere and the waitress directly in front of him almost surprised him. It wasn't easy getting a reaction from her and he sensed she was selective as to which customers won her attention. Looking beyond her, his interest was caught by an attractive woman directly across from him, very stylish, elegant. Cool? He thought she noticed him, but perhaps her attention was for the waitress who was now blocking his view with her broad back. (Why did it bother him? )  Very annoying. Vinko asked him something and he half-heartedly joked when the war was over he should apply for a position as a political lecturer at the University - if there still was one - in Sarajevo.

Not wanting to be too obvious, he reached over the counter for a sachet of sugar and was surprised for a moment that the woman was watching him over her newspaper. The glance was just a second or two longer than expected before she continued reading. Was she single? He couldn't determine her age. Somewhere between his age and his mother's. That excited him somehow. ‘Such eyes couldn't belong to a cold woman’, he decided. His ears were relieved to notice even Vinko had shut up for a moment. The waitress brought the lady's coffee. He found himself strangely riveted, as he watched her undo the buttons of her glove.

In an instant, he saw himself next to her slowly undoing whatever else there was to be undone on her. His eyes started to water. How long was he watching her fingers working the second button? How long was she gazing at him? Embarrassed, he broke his gaze and kicked his friend under the counter.

  How foolish they must have looked, like boys caught at something. He had a flash of his boyhood; his mother making his bed and joking about wet spots on the sheets. His face warmed, just as it did then.

By now he was fascinated by the woman, yet concentrated on trying not to look over to her. ‘She's probably married to some rich, fat businessman. Would such an elegant woman accept an invitation to a romantic dinner with me?’ he fantasised, cynically laughing to himself. Vinko responded to his kick with a teasing shove. 

“Ask her out for a hamburger,” he mocked. 

Jure couldn't help but laugh at the accuracy of his financial means. She was smiling at him and he nodded, surprised at himself. Vinko's voice was droning again. He wished he had noticed what paper she was reading. She didn't look German. Was she French? Italian? Should he, shouldn't he? 

A cold realisation made him tense. ‘She's starting to leave.’ Captured by the awkwardness of the moment, his eyes wide, he met her gaze as she very carefully and thoughtfully pulled on her gloves...and slowly worked the buttons. His heart jumped at her warm smile, and his fantasy raced. He watched the back of her head disappear into the crowd, toward the tracks. His shoulders dropped and he sighed, wishing he had the courage to jump up and race after her. 

Stretching to peer over the crowd, the sight of her just stepping into the train was instant incentive enough to bolt through the throngs of the bustling people. Jostling passengers, side-stepping carts, leaping over luggage, he just made it to the car he was sure he saw her enter. 

The words First Class on the side of the compartment made him pause and at that moment he realised she was sitting by the window. She appeared surprised, smiled, yet observed him. Seconds too late, the door electronically sealed, he watched her warm smile and the train pull out of the station and his life.