Fables of an almost one sided conversation---when Vita first spoke with Anais

October 07, 2003 7:13 p.m.

My trepidition was obvious. It hung like a curtain, veiling me from her. No matter how much I willed it, I could not look her in the eye. There was so much I wished to say, to ask. But my voice caught in my throat like a sharp piece of biscuit, rendering me incapable of articulate speach. I was mortified.

Here was this lovely creature, draped in a finery so much like the sound of her very voice. Velvet and silk, a touch of leather. She smelt of cinnamon and sandalwood. Of tales untold and unmade. I felt foolish. Like a shy young girl, not yet awakened into puberty. Looking down I realised I had no breasts. This loveliness, this woman of such subtlety and desire had reduced me to an eleven year old girl. Even though I was the elder of us.

She spoke to me in tones like smooth honey, melted chocolate rivers, in which I drowned. And when she lowered her voice, to that smoky whisper, I quivered from my toes up. I wanted to look at her then, to see the colour of her eyes. But I couldn't move any higher than the sensual lines of her lips. The way she made her perfect vowels and consonants flow from off her tongue and over her open lips. Her breath was sweet. And for a moment I wondered of the taste of the inside of her mouth.

I couldn't look at her. I couldn't let her see the ugly things that lurk behind my eyes. Things I know she would surely see. I wanted to be innocent. I wanted to be new. I wanted to be pure in her eyes. I wanted her to think me beautiful and clean like the crystal glasses from which we drank.

There was no breeze. The sunlight was prefect. Like her skin. I knew she had secrets in her valleys and chasms. She was my very own golden goblet, her blood my wine, her voice a symphony, her presence, my reason for being. She cast a spell on me that stole my voice and I could not tell her of how she had breathed life into me with every word she spoke. I was her own Silicone Sally, yet somehow I knew she would not fill my plasticity with hers.

And even when our hands brushed against each other, even when I could feel her looking at me, waiting for me to look up. I blushed, and wished I had not spent so much money on my ostrich feathered hat. For surely over cake, the conversation would have been less stilted, I would have been less stiff and then perhaps I would know the colour of her lovely eyes.

~ Vita