In My Little Museum of Erotica: The Gloaming
- jocelynterifryer
- Jul 31, 2022
- 21 min read
She writes daily. Inspiration has been kind to her of late. Doggedly demanding, but yes, kind too. Tearing herself away from her weapon of choice, the Olivetti typewriter long sought after, only to feverishly scribble out further notes in her journal for safekeeping. Or to take a puff.
He works daily. Making things work. Things thought beyond repair. In his workshop beyond. In heavy work boots. She could not, no never, she’d have had it, she thinks, polishing them. Out there in his workshop, beyond where she writes without rest.
They drink too much coffee. She smokes too much. A habit she’s reluctant to give up. He smokes here and there, but rollies, breaking briefly from his broken machines, to light and take a slow drag of a slim rollie dangling from the corner of his mouth. But she’ll do better tomorrow, she vows. Not really meaning it. And he will remind her she smokes too much, telling her off. But not really meaning it. Not really.
Taking the last cold swig of her coffee, she strolls feet bare, soles toughened, soles so very toughened by now, across the rust dusty path to the workshop, watching for scorpions underfoot. She’s loathe to wear shoes, her sensitive feet needing freedom, earthing like roots. But freedom most of all. Rejecting shoes.
She’s making a round of coffee. And she never forgets him. In this she is a good woman. Even though she is not naturally domestic when her writing and her flashes of inspiration consume all her waking hours, rising with the rooster that crows like clockwork, each morning at 4.
For her, there seems never enough time in the day. Sometimes, after holding him till he falls to slumber in bed, she sneaks out delicately, feet still bare without sound, from beneath the covers and strikes a match for the candle near the sofa, to continue her scribbles, notes, thoughts, flashes, all she fears may be lost to her if she is not their immediate scribe, interrupted only again by the crowing that it is yet again morning and 4.
Never enough time.
So unlike him. Never scattered. Never rushed. With thoughts and actions that move towards a sound progression, a logical course. In this, they are so unalike. But good for each other too.
She puts the kettle on the gas top to boil. A cherry red kettle. Like the ludicrously gigantic pepper grinder. Cherry red. Like the miniature fire engine. Cherry red. Or perhaps rather, as it is, fire engine red. Red. His favourite colour. She compromises with these inclusions of redness. For all the kitchen is a rich and luscious emerald green. To fortify her for the day ahead come first light, and to invigorate her by nightfall as the day has worn her out. Tropical Lush, the tin had said. She loves green. For as long as she can remember, she has craved green. He gave her the kitchen. Even when smoke bellowed from the stove, pork chops forgotten, as she typed, and typed, and typed. He gave her a green kitchen all the same.
But when the smoke bellowed forth, twirling in a purple haze with its choking stench, her still typing, typing, typing at her Olivetti typewriter, that’s when he got her the miniature fire engine. A joke between them. Mostly, he laughs at her mishaps in the everyday as he has come to know her well. A red fire engine to cheer her, and lift her spirits, for all that she takes these everyday failings to heart.
He has the outhouse toilet. He never bothers to make the trip all the way into the cottage when he is at work outdoors and beyond. In his tidy, immaculate workshop. In his industrious work boots. And thick cashmere hiking socks, studded with holes. For all she’s no good at darning. All in order in his workshop. Each with a place all its own. Even the oil rags have their place. So very meticulous. So very organized. So unalike they are again. But again, one can only hope, good for each other. The outhouse toilet is a deep red. His room. His bog. His refuge for a moment of clarity, of sanity, a withdrawal from his broken machines, and her. His sanity. While she watches her own with growing doubt.
Everywhere else, the walls are white. The floors underfoot cool and tiled. The heat is too overwhelming for too much colour. And even more, for her clutter, her penchant for the weird and wonderful, the strangest things that she trawls home from all those charity shops, growing attached to them sentimentally for no reason at all. Other than that they once had a life before and were loved and then discarded and for this, she loves them anew. He fixes broken things. She harbours the neglected things. And in this, maybe they are not so unalike. But who can truly say? Neither has thought about it.
So unalike they think each other so often.
But he grants her this, her odd affection for these things, for he can hardly complain. With his broken machines.
Making coffee, she suddenly feels moved to prepare for him a hearty breakfast of farm fresh eggs from the coop, with smoked streaky bacon crisped to a crackling, and baked beans on hot buttered salty toast. Toast from the bread she has made. Smeared generously with salty farm butter. This bread she kneaded, before her Olivetti typewriter consumed her, nigh on the breaking of the dawn, especially for him, well, it’s low GI of course. For the diabetes she sometimes worries and frets over a great deal more than he.
Some days it infuriates her.
His toe had all but rotted away, after weeks of her heeding him be warned for it looked amiss. Callous far too dark. On his big toe. His diabetic limbs. His diabetic feet and toes.
His lack of worry, of fretting.
So unencumbered by anything beyond the broken machines. She makes him take off his socks each and every night, so his feet might breathe.
Making breakfast for him, a thought comes to her. She moves on for now, to find her journal in the plain white writing room.
The barest of all the rooms in the cottage, besides her books in a solitary bookcase. To hold her stable. As stable as possible. To ground her once struck by madness that worry her, leaves her fretting, like his diabetes.
Her Olivetti typewriter poised for the next page of her novel. Just one project. Of nine. And counting...
There is never enough time in the day for all she wakes with that confounded rooster. Just never enough time, she bemoans to herself muttering under her breath, jotting down frantically one train of thought, then a quote that comes to her, then the next train of thought that comes to her, seeming without end. But at least she is a wellspring.
A writer at the best of times. And just that and no more. Only at the best of times.
No… no… no… She drops the journal. Drops the sharpened pencil. Dashes for the kitchen. Smoke bellows yet again. That cloistering blue purple grey haze. The miniature red fire engine, once a harmless joke, a token of his love, now mocking her, unkind. Nay, downright mean. Oh shut up she wants to say to that cackling piece of painted metal. The bacon is burnt beyond a crisp. She has ruined it.
Dismayed, she carries out his meal. She tells him of her calamity, near tears.
But he is distracted.
Fed up too, since she’s been lost to so many thoughts lately, with so little thought left to the dinners she routinely sabotages with a mind that runs wild, like a horse that for all he tries, he simply cannot tame. For all she is barefoot in the kitchen most days, as the saying goes. At least before the madness takes hold. Like the wild seas. The wild Sargasso Sea. Not even saddle. A cruel mistress to wayfaring ships. And mercilessly beyond taming, reigning in, harnessing, when this madness, this inspiration grips her like this.
So bloody unalike he mutters to himself. To nobody and nothing beyond maybe the broken machine he is trying to fix.
He snaps at her. She blinks back the tears and leaves his coffee on a narrowed side table, part of a segmented set that make a whole circle, and his breakfast with the mismatched silver cutlery she collects on his oak rocking chair in the corner, balancing it on a quilted cushion. Ruefully she takes in the cat hair thickly coating the cushion. Yes. She knows.
She is a dismal housewife.
He comes to, from his task, to remember the coffee and breakfast precariously balanced on his rocking chair and the quartered segment of a side table. Like the oranges picked from their tree that she so neatly peels and segments for him most mornings. Her hands smelling of citrus bittersweet all morning long after. He watches her sometimes, her big toe tapping all the while. Peeling. Rind under her nails. So sweet those oranges are. And her, he mutters again, this time mournfully, shamefully, to the broken machine that will not bend to his will that day.
Irritation subdued, he feels pity in his heart for her. So sweet like those oranges.
Those oranges she peels and segments for him almost every morning. His fragile little fishy. Not a cruel mistress at all. His wildling.
Why did he have to lash out like that – though a crab by planetary ruling he is – with those despicable pincers? And how can he possibly ask for more of his beloved fishy, his wildling? For he loves her for her strangeness, for all it drives him to insanity some days, this muse, this insanity of her own, and still he will love her always for her strangeness. His little fishy, his wildling, with the neatly segmented oranges for him.
And now all he wants is a taste of sweet orange.
Picking a bright orange nasturtium from their indiscriminate garden patch of herbs and edible flowers and weeds alike, he soundlessly almost on tiptoe enters the cottage and tears off a post it note, luminous pink, from next to the telephone table. The wad of post it notes next to the telephone they have long since disconnected.
He grabs a pencil.
He scrawls an invitation, in his best handwriting, carefully, beckoning her to meet him by the jetty by the lake after her short siesta as the sun reaches its zenith for the day.
He leaves it, sticky side to her bedside dresser, with the flower. It won’t be long now.
And soon enough, now, she comes. To meet on the wooden deck. In time. Succumbing to his invitation. The love language that must never be refused. In little but her tiny bikini bottoms, faded, once a jewelled green hue, now a weathered green grey, but with those little ties in bows at each side of her lovely hips. And she cares not for shiny new clothes. Something he loves her for. And oh, how he loves those little bow ties. To untie. Slowly. When she relinquishes to him, expectant.
Now she comes towards him, without confidence, brown eyes large and uncertain he can see. But bare breasted. And completely barefoot as always.
As she knows he likes her to come to him.
Just like she knows he likes his sweet orange peeled and neatly segmented. She is as if Eve, or better, Lilith, he wonders to himself in an evanescent moment, and they in their very own Eden. But no forbidden fruits.
Only neatly segmented sweet oranges, segmented with a generous heart. Free of motive.
More and more, as she comes toward him, slowly, eyes ever uncertain, he shames himself, but yes, he is glad he wrote her the luminous pink post it note, that he saw to evoke their love language in the light of his harsh folly, in light of hurting her for only doing her best and thinking of him all the same still.
He tastes now, suddenly, the brightness of sweet oranges in his mouth.
Her body is no swimsuit model. Her tummy soft, but welcoming. The belly button deep.
Cavernous. No sharp bones on her. Not where it matters anyhow. And her sun hat of course.
Never shoes. Not even the leather sandals he bought her. Always a sun hat.
For all he warns her of scorpions and thorns. But always the sun hat. She wears it now too. But he will remove it in time. For all she hates a burnt nose. The sun will do no serious harm now. Not now. Not after her siesta. And again, there it is, the taste of sweet orange.
Her trusty sun hat, worn and frayed, has seen better days like those bikini bottoms with bow ties. Oh that trusty hat, trusty for it also keeps the glare from the pages of her latest read, as she reads faster than he knows how. This intense, roving sun. Her trusty hat, her soft rebuke against its intensity before she retires for siesta. Or emerges. All the same.
She is meeting him, nearing the wood slatted jetty, still love forlorn, a little shy he can tell, and tentative. Feet, unsure, steadily coming step by step.
The taste of sweet orange overwhelms his senses again, and there, even the scent of the bittersweet skin, oily, shining, and he wants to rush to her, to carry her in his arms. Keep her bare feet from thorns beneath, or scorpions unseen. But he waits. She needs this space, this breadth between them. Her feet know too the lay of the land by now. They have learnt to tread carefully. Yet still, she not knowing if he is still cross, like a dog waiting for its master to call it hither. Awkward. Once rebuked. A bit ungainly. And again, and again, she takes one cautious step after the next, encroaching, slow. But coming. Just like the loyal creature she is.
His steely blue eyes soften, turning a deeper shade, holding her gaze, reassuring her.
So he tries. Softening, reassuring. The taste of orange mellows, lingers, but mellows.
He smiles at her. Again. He must, he must, soften and reassure her.
Easy does it. He reaches out a hand to hold hers, so small liker her feet, now that he can hear her nervous breath, now that she is in reaching distance, to twist the brilliant black pearl ring, simple but luminous, ever shifting in shades, that she wears as her vow to him, their secret promise for life to each other, and for nobody but each other to know, their hallowed, secret vow for life. And he smiles now again, warmly, at the leather toe ring he gave her last anniversary.
He gently tugs her closer and wraps his arms enfolding her comely golden thighs, dimpled in places he knows like his own name, next running his fingers up and down her short but shapely legs, the whole length of them, top to bottom, her small feet tapering off, her toes curling, revelling in their form, those soft but strong legs, for all the stubble and the places she has missed with her blunt razor. Lingering still the taste of sweet orange.
Golden and sweet. Just like her. He smiles again, and again. He must soften and reassure her he knows. He knows, he knows. All too well.
He loves her all the same.
In fact, he adores her. If only she knew how much sometimes. How much he regrets his crabby nature, his poor little fishy, his wildling, only ever trying her best. For her strangeness is her nature too, and he would never ask her to change. Like you would never beg of the sweet orange, a gift of the arable earth, to be another fruit. Of the arable earth like her toughened soles. To change, not ever.
If only he told her this more often. But for now, no words are spoken.
She stands still, a slight trembling, seeking stronger foothold, while he sits dangling one long leg into the water, his toe healed by her steadfast care, cooling, off the sun soaked wooden slats of the jetty.
Learning to trust him again, his softness and reassurance having won in the end, to trust that he loves her yet for all her faults, for all she cremated his bacon, for all she has been so absent minded, so absorbed in her work of late. Yes, he loves her still.
Encouraged, bolder, she holds his head close to her belly, stroking the nape of his browned and freckled neck, running her fingers, twirling round her black pearl ring, their hallowed vow, through his beautiful dark curls. She lowers herself to his level and he draws her to him, cradling her, as he lowers them to lie on the jetty, entangled in each other, her short but firm but soft golden legs scissoring his lanky limbs, so much taller is he. And how deliciously she climbs him, climbing his length, drinking him in, stretched out, the full length of him, sketching him even from time to time when the mood takes her in her notebook with a dark blunt pencil she keeps by her bedside especially.
Especially dark and blunt to capture his androgynous lines, his graceful but scarred, lived, form with the gentler edge they carry too. She always takes her time when it comes to his feet. She worships his feet most of all. He knows she worships him in these moments as she tells him how handsome he is to her. His long feet most of all. He knows. But no words are needed now.
The air is at least cool off the water. A relief from the heat, as his body heat seeks hers.
Their feet knotted together like kitke bread.
A bread she makes for him every Friday.
His break from low GI. His treat.
Her ritual, with salty farm butter and Bovril. Plaiting it for him. But now feet exquisitely plaited together.
The time is ripe now. She is becoming like fruit hanging low and heavy on the branch. A juicy peach. A dark plum, sour skin splitting open with teeth to pale meat within. A slice of watermelon you wipe from your mouth with your forearm, devouring it pips and all. Orange flesh beneath yielding orange skin, so sweet beneath the bittersweet. She is low and heavy on the branch for him. He knows in this, he satisfies her, and she rises, and dips, rises, and dips, as he parts the lips, gloriously familiar to him, prickly kiwi fuzz peeled back before the green seeded pulp, ripened fruit that he splits opens with his expert touch, and still she rises, and dips, rises, and dips.
Yes, she loves his touch, his crabby claws resigned as he looks inside of himself, to touch her like he has never touched another woman, to touch his gentle wildling, now an awakening, and aroused and arousing pomegranate to his touch, bursting forth, with its pink seeded centre, each seed a glistening precious stone, by the water’s edge, by the cool of the breeze and the flutter of dragonflies and their iridescent wings buzzing just above the surface, by the ugly duckling circling the lake, then taking cover among the reeds.
Yet no he thinks now, not fruit. Not fruit any longer. No longer born of arable earth. But, instead, of that wild Sargasso Sea. And now a mermaid, his fishy transformed, sacrificing her tail for legs, for him, with those poor, wretched feet that ache after a long day when she longs for her tail back, for him, always for him, this human shape, a burden but no, not with her love, all for him, with a hidden oyster in her depths, ripe for the plucking, just like the fruit, but not fruit, but the strangest of all fruit, ripe for his fingers, his touch, his skilled shucking knife that makes quick work of her precious oyster, finding the even more precious pearl at its innermost, again, and there it is again, waiting for him, ripe for the plucking, ripe for the shucking. For his fingers that fix broken things. Maybe even world wearied mermaids.
Fingers that can fix almost all broken things.
These fingers that shuck her oyster.
These fingers that know all too well how to fix most anything broken, she marvels, as she gives of her oyster so willingly to these fingers. The taste of sweet orange now a scent, now a passing taste filling his tongue. Gone again. But returned. Then gone again. This taste, this scent. Oh how he will fix her with his touch. His wildling. His poor, suffering mermaid with aching feet. His poor, suffering mermaid who bears him those neatly peeled and segmented sweet oranges. He will. With his softness and reassurance.
Oh how he will fix his broken but lovely mermaid.
Heal her aching feet.
Send shivers of ecstasy to the very tips of her toes as he always does.
He strokes her face tenderly with his other hand now, she still rising and dipping to his touch with his knowing way, the way that knows every inch of her ever ripening, briny oyster, her hidden and secret pearl, that other pearl, his and his alone. He pulls her even closer, kissing her giving mouth, her lips, with every softness, with every reassurance he can muster, and he knows she loves his lips, his lips on hers, his tongue searching for hers, as they lock lips, lock tongues, dance with tongues. And she loves how her small feet mould into the curve of his, so long and slender.
He wonders for a moment if she too can taste the sweet orange that will not leave him, that returns again, and again, this sunburst citrus, this sweetness, on his tongue. He wonders if she can smell it on his sun warmed skin, sun warmed like the wooden slats of the deck that carry them aloft the cool of the lake. Floating above the water, only a bit, in each other’s arms. Warmed by the generous wooden slats warmed by the generous fading sun.
How he longs to fix this broken thing, this beloved, this strange creature who bears him neatly segmented oranges, this poor, broken thing, a broken thing of human form with feet that ache.
He is quietening her frantic mind too. For she feels only body. Only body responding to body. Two bodies that seem made for one another. Surely it must be so. Made for each other. Him, the lost sailor, for all he can fix almost anything, not master any more, but the lost sailor being guided safely back to shore, where treasure lies for those who know how to reach to touch the depths. Untold treasure. And still, she rises, and dips, and rises, and dips. Like water itself, he thinks, my fishy, my mermaid, my oyster, my pearl. Of that wild Sargasso Sea. My wild untamed. My wildling.
Oh, my beautiful pearl, and so splendid you are, so giving of yourself. Of your sweet lips. Of those aching feet each day. For this ungrateful crab. And in every tenderness, both him and her – for crabs and fishes are tender, you see – she welcomes him inside her, his wanton sailor ways as he finally finds safe passage home. And as he too begins to rise, and dip, and rise, and dip, water just like her. They are both of the water, you see. When they remember so. Water together, water to water, but one, flowing together, and he clings to her for one last moment like the lost sailor come home.
Almost moved to desperate tears of homecoming. Come home to drink of her wellspring, once so famished for clearer sweeter waters. Sweet waters as giving as sweet oranges as her lips.
He stays there, water to water, one, in her arms as she wraps her golden but strong but soft limbs around him, rubbing her rust dusty foot up and down the length of his leg.
The scent of bittersweet orange rind still overcoming his senses.
She savours this moment. She kisses him along his clavicle bone, now salty and sweaty, for she loves the taste of him. She loves how her hand seems made for it, to fit, just as their feet become bound together again. And she tastes his sweat. Briny, just like her oyster. The brackish salt of him. For all she swears the smell of orange flesh on his warmed browned weathered freckled skin. Water to water, one.
They will part when they are ready. But not yet. Not yet. Hold me still, they say to each other without words. Do not let go. Hold me still. But not a word spoken. Nothing beyond limbs and feet and lips and oysters and growing longing filling her just like the ebb and flow of the tide that rules her Neptunian soul. And the scent of orange sweetness they both surrender to now. All the world lazy and still. Her toes curling, the lasting pleasure.
She thinks on a Sandra Cisneros poem. In My Little Museum of Erotica...
Oh how she would place his feet on Corinthian columns.
Hardened, hardworking, loving them like she loves his calloused hands too.
They have nowhere to be anymore. Both now longing for golden ripe oranges, fruit for scurvy, bright fruit for wearied mermaids and wanton sailors. Restless waters stilled by the sound of the other breathing, by the beating of their animal hearts, still racing, as one.
Water to water, still one.
Finally she breaks the silence and she utters those three words. Words he knows too well.
Oh, my love.
And she nestles her tangled mess of dirty blonde, her little nose, into the radiating heat and comfort of his chest. Fondling more the clavicle bone, entwining feet all the more, tasting yet again his salt and sweat. Just as he has tasted of hers. Both so briny now. Before nestling her head again, fingers still running up and down, up and down his clavicle bone, like an instrument, a conch shell to blow upon and call to her with its song, if only she knew how to play it, to unlock its song. But for now, she strokes it and wonders after its mystery, its unknown song. Mystery among lovers is not the worst, she knows.
So unlike feet she thinks, with stories woven.
Time has ceased to be, paused.
The residual heat of late afternoon summer, for all the fading sun, has quietened the roosters and the hens and sent even all the ducks each and every one out from the lake to find shelter beneath the trees, all but that ugly duckling hidden among the reeds, but now, sluggishly but surely, time is beginning to come to, the sun tempering, lazy now too. Just like them. Just like all the life in their enchanted Eden.
Their land of sweet oranges and wellsprings and water to water, one. One.
Soon the moon will rise and bid it farewell, lazied sun, from its duties until anon, with the crowing of the rooster. Till anon. She thinks no longer of words and words and words. Her Olivetti typewriter has been abandoned. And her notebook.
She is all his. All else abandoned. For, secretly, she knows, he has the most magical of all broken things right there, right here, with those faded green little bow ties set aside, her oyster still calling to him. And for him too, his broken machines, completely abandoned for his love of her. Her the only broken thing he will ever need to fix, truly in his wisdom.
He knows she loves him. And what of burnt bacon? Surely, when there are sweet oranges and sweet waters, wellspring, and water to water, and one. And all of this love for this wildling who fills his heart so with the need to be a better man as she lifts her head slightly to look for a sign of contentment on his face, imploring, to rest, since she has made him glad, in the blue eyes she never fails to tell him shine to her in candlelight, in the dark, like glimmering sapphires, all the more precious.
He thinks yes, special to her, most precious, but surely not more precious than that other pearl in her briny oyster that she keeps only for him, for his tongue, for his touch, for his searching fingertips, that briny oyster that swallows his shucking knife whole, as all with him, as she is, as if it is nothing at all. It is not I who is master at all, he wonders almost aloud to himself.
But he says nothing.
She shifts slightly in his arms, reaching behind his neck to wander up its climb, to tousle his hair. Toe to tip. She drinks him in.
Again she interrupts the silence. Oh, my love.
She sighs deeply, and he longs to swell again, delighting still in her toes that continue to curl, to come inside her depths again, to eat of sweet oranges from her lips for his scurvied soul, to drink of her wellspring sweet waters, to drive her to the edge of reason in his love and tenderness and passion for her. How hauntingly, but exquisite, his soul elevated, her oyster calls to him, not leaving him from its singing song. A song that won’t let go. Unlike his mysterious salty clavicle for her who revels in some mysteries. Leaves them be, this time in her own wisdom. He wishes to pillage and plunder the very dregs of her, till he knows she has not one more moment of ecstasy, no more treasure to give, not till anon. At least. For he is no coloniser.
But no. Not till the next neon post it note. Yet.
For now, rest for both. Reconciliation. There are shooting stars to come later. Later, later.
There is plenty of time, he knows. Unlike her. For they are so unalike sometimes. And yet, words unspoken, they forgive each other with their bodies, water to water, one.
She speaks again, staring upwards at the big blue gum just beyond the grassy beds by the languid lake, towering over the still warmed and now inviting wooden planks of the jetty, as the two lovers, water to water, one, lie in rapture in each other’s arms.
It’s the gloaming, she says to him.
Or to herself.
He never can tell.
But he loves her for her strangeness.
Oh her mystical strangeness. His fishy. His wildling. His mermaid. His oyster. His pearl.
His pearl and his alone.
How lucky am I? he wonders.
He must wonder. But he could never tell her.
And yet, like all fishies, and mermaids, of sunken treasures, for all who bring lost sailors to safe havens, and calmer waters, to give them freshly plucked sweet oranges to eat, sweet waters to drink, she knows. Those sweeter, lovelier mermaids. Especially those who trade tails for aching feet. She knows. Even though he will never tell her.
And the pale orange light of the gloaming hour shrouds her in a luminescent cloak of transfiguration, and she is a myth to him entire, truly a mermaid, but with legs scissored between his. No tail. A divine mystery of his own. With feet he feels a newfound sorrow for, feet he now wants to hold and to heal.
But in this otherworldly light, a myth without tail all the same. And yet, water to my water, one. And still they lie, in the gloaming hour, not stirring, not speaking.
Water to water.
One.
While he plays quietly to himself, with her hand so lightly on him, lost to no thought in particular, beyond how breathtaking she is in the bewitching light, and he plays and plays, stroking her small fingers, with their short unvarnished nails, plain nails he loves her for, pink and pure like her little toenails always neatly trimmed, playing and playing, an eternity, and twirling her brilliant now purple black pearl ring around and around.
How lucky am I? he wonders one last time. But it will not be for the last time.
And she vows, without uttering again, to be his safe haven forever. An eternity. For all her feet ache sometimes. Forever of this man who fixes broken things. All; she is sure. And with both, not a word is spoken now. Not while there is the gloaming. Just water to water. One. No need for a word spoken. For it might break the spell. It never was their language anyway. And as orange light fills the sky, the scent of orange flesh mingles and all is golden and silent. They’d never needed the alphabet anyway.
Only water, to water, one. Sailor without ship. Mermaid without tail. And the silence descends still. In this, the gloaming.

Emerald Dreams by Victor Nizovtsev
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