The fingers of my right hand were splayed open on her stomach, my palm resting there gently. Long strands of her dark hair were running through the crooks of the fingers on my other hand. Smiling softly, I bent my head down and kissed her lips.
Pulling back, I slowly dragged my fingers across her belly. She began to laugh.
“Ticklish?” I asked. “Yes,” she admitted.
I held my hand steady, letting it rise and fall with her breath. After a moment, she began to laugh again.
“What?” I protested. “I’m not even moving it!”
“It isn’t that,” she said.
“Then what is it?”
“At last, you are caressing me like your guitar.”
I remembered her feigned jealousy of my instrument when I had sent her the picture long ago. Unable to stop myself, I began laughing with her.
After a few seconds, our laughter spent, I gazed into her dark eyes.
“But your music is far sweeter to me,” I said, smirking at the cliché.
And leaning down, I began kissing her lips again.
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"I have spent my days stringing and unstringing my instrument while the song I came to sing remains unsung." ~ Rabindranath Tagore
- bard
- A mixture of poet and musician, warrior and philosopher, the bard, having grown weary of trying to find his place in the modern world, retired to the Lonely Bard Inn to contemplate his future. He is often seen drinking or writing alone (a personification of the inn itself), but from time to time he joins in the festivities that are always to be found in the pub. On occasion he even shares a poem or song with the sympathetic patrons, who are usually eager for new forms of amusement.
Evocative. This made me smile. Maggs.
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