the night’s hours
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The day’s hours were worn down and a sudden sunset, that
resembled a master’s painted glimpse of Valhalla, was upon
us, its majesty of deepest blue, blood red and black.
From our tenth-floor skew, the river looked, for all,
like a wrinkled sea expecting a storm. Boats moved
to tie up before the dark body of windswept clouds arrived
trailing a wall of downpour and flickering, electric thunder.
Our study group had run over, as they tend to do. Most of the
members urgently moved to pack up (they’d be campus bound).
An unpropitious rumble and fierce flare of light, revealed that mild
twilight had swiftly faded to a darkest stormy night.
My pinched-pleated curtains thrashed before this tempest for
the almanacs, feigning a life they do not possess, like twin ghosts
stured to wrath.
“We can order in,” I offered, waving a menu from the downstairs bistro, as I closed my French, glass doors. “Why not eat here and wait it out?” I shrugged, “My treat,” I offered, “and I have wine.”
A pleasant embracement of relief and consent followed. What held
more power, I wondered, the society, natures coerce or the gratis fare?
Later. as we parted, a young man paltered, repaying me with a quick hug and cheeky kiss. The valueless touch, was itself rewarded with a small grimace of a smile, but the sin did not overset the mood.
.
.
Songs for this:
Riders on the storm by the doors
Stormy by Classics IV
Copyright © Anais Vionet | Year Posted 2025
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