Garden

GARDEN She smelled like the colors of an intricate garden in which every geometry and every dimension, every expression of soft composition, had the dominant splash, the pervasive aura, the relentlessly visible subtext of red Centered and rooted in the soil of tradition, North African shawl over white silk blouse and long black skirt, the high Cuban heels and the sheer black stockings, the curly black hair over dark honey skin all smelled like the gurgling of cold running water through the granite canals that sparkled like sunlight broken by motion in the highest-walled gardens of Al-Andalus “I’m getting older” she said clicking her heels as they walked toward coffee at theater intermission where women of high fashion and girls without clue set an aesthetic standard that smelled like the storms at the end of October that dislodge the leaves, the petals, the last fruits, and render the garden a study of lost order overwhelmed by forces without purpose or merit “I want you” he said, sure that every person on the atrium floor was fully aware that the finest theater in the darkening shadows was she in the red shawl and the gentleman beside her, that she smelled like the languages of medinas and plazas, of harems and courtyards and the pervasive odors of espresso and wine, perfume and tobacco, lipstick and roses, that the breeze of her breath made him sway with the scents of the colors of night Shall we?” he said and she turned, saying nothing, began walking slowly through the flowers and vines with the soft sexy rhythm that only high heels can offer And reaching their seats, this alluring composition of red breezes and smells and Mediterranean gardens of poetry and song, mother of his children and the personification of all he know about plants, kissed him lightly on the lips and looked toward the stage “Yes we shall” she softly whispered like a nocturnal breeze in a garden where the walls smell like oranges and jasmine and the color of red