NONE OF YOUR SPOILT BEAUTIES

Liz Milne

She dreams of fireworks, the electric tingle of sparklers, a deliciously swirling Catherine wheel, tall rockets going up to explode in a shower of fiery sparks. She dreams of Roman candles, of eyes watching her as she rocks back, her legs parting-closing-parting, showing off her sheer tights, and softest white nainsook, both newly bought and flattering to the shapely curve of calf and thigh. The pyrotechnics burst again and again, and she rocks back and back with them, watching the lights in the sky, but conscious all the time of his eyes on her.
        Somehow, she saw that he saw. That he saw it all.
        The blare of her bedside alarm bursts the illusion. Not like a firework, no, not exciting, building, pleasurable. Interrupted, he turns away, fades, and she descends from the almost-thereness. She places the wand on a pillow, climbs on and thumbs the switch, closes her eyes and returns. To the beach, the fireworks, and him.
        He’s waiting, looking for her, and he keeps on looking, as a gush of green and red flare across the nearly night sky and falling stars and tumbled golden hair and yes.
        O so lovely, O so sweet and soft.
        All melts dewily away, all is silent, and he is gone.