Another late morning movie, this time ‘The Tourist’. You particularly enjoyed the scenery from Paris to Venice as it is the train you would take from Venice to Paris if you take the trip with the Brelsfords next Fall.
Mid-afternoon. You and Jen and Linda had a good seafood lunch at the Colonnade on Bay Shore Drive. Bill had an interruption with last minute school business and couldn’t go. Packing should take priority here, so – later, dude. – Amorella.
Shortly after the twentieth hour and you have finished a second draft of the first selection of scene thirteen. Here it is:
Scene 13, selection 1, draft two
After entering, Sophia anxiously sat down in the chair nearest the door. “I don’t think I have been to your privacy before?”
“I have been to yours though,” smiled Salamon.
She smiled demurely, “We three were ready for a discussion.”
He sat across from her in the windowless four-cornered room with the open ceiling architecture receiving the seemingly natural twilight. Salamon noted, “That three-way bed-talk was about Mother’s original culture, that’s the way I remember it – that Mother was pre-Greek.”
“What I remember most was the question, ‘Where are all the other Dead?’”
Salamon piped, “Mother is the key to bridging this.”
Sophia grumbled, “What I am afraid of, Salamon, is that our bridge will not become the symbol I am hoping for.”
“It isn’t a symbol alone, Sophia. “We are into the construction. There may be a real connection, a real bridge for the Dead even if we cannot bridge the Living.”
Salamon spoke comfortably, “It would make sense if the Egyptian Dead were on the other side of the Styx.”
She blurted,, “Mother knows things.”
“I am sure of it.”
“Why doesn’t she tell us the truth?”
“About us Greeks or the Dead?”
She sighed, “We are the Dead, Salamon.”
“I meant the other Dead, Sophia. Don’t twist me.”
“Panagiotakis also knows. He probably controls Mother. It would not be unheard of in a shaman.”
“I cannot imagine that. Mother is his grandchild.”
She balked, “Why is he not considered our Father? Tell me that Salamon.”
“Relax, Sophia. Lie down and relax.” He thrust his index finger skyward, “We can observe the heavens from the mattress. Create our own constellations with a few sips of wine and say what comes to mind.”
She handily glanced and remarked, “I thought when I died I’d be closer to stars yet here they still are.”
“See, a conversation. I’ll pull a couple of wine glasses from the wall cabinet .”
“Sophia quickly added, “We can conjure our favorite fruit for a mix.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” He spritely walked over and selected two glass tumblers and two shallow saucers from the common cupboard setting on the floor along the west wall.
Sophia rested herself on the knee high mattress. “Why do you have the grass surrounding the bed?”
“I like to feel it with hands and feet while sleeping. I’ll roll over, seemingly to frieze into sleeping stone and awake with the blades tickling my toes. Sleepy stone coming to life amongst blades of grass.”
Sophia discerned, he’s quaint or odd, I’m not sure which.
Salamon handed her a glass and dish, sat down on the edge of the mattress with her and empty goblet toasted empty goblet. Each sipped and tasted their best memory of grape. They sat awhile and said little, eventually held hands and fell onto the mattress and observed the twilight rolling into starlight.
Sophia whispered, “When I was young I loved the mystery of the moon more than the sun.” She paused, “Here we are with no sun for the light of day, and the moon ever shines in day or night as it did when we were living.”
“I had not thought that about the moon, Sophia,” replied Salamon.
“She still dresses into one of her four quarters. A pretty sight even in waning.” Sophia closed her eyes secretly smiling into memories of youth.
Sophia is so much smarter than myself, realized Salamon. Yet our fingers enjoy their stimulation. The sun still shines within Sophia’s touch. And shortly . . .
. . . On the mattress in early evening. Sophia loosed her garment and rolled onto her back. She playfully reached to Salamon’s waist as he easefully listed and distributed himself between her extended thighs and pushed his hands palms on the mattress beyond her shoulders for balance.
Sophia placed her left arm so her hand gripped his fictional flesh to the right of his spine where she placed her arm in such a way that her hand pulled to accommodate her outspread right thigh.
Her feet arched and her toes involuntarily wiggled as he slowly thrust in and pulled nearly out in a machine-like rhythm accelerating his pelvis through ever-quicker motions. Salamon, automatically minded in his ridged air-like driver, a perfect attachment by will alone. Repeatedly their pelvises clapped their shared passion.
Real enough, reflected Salamon. These rush of motions trigger the living memory of body. Nature can exist even here in Elysium. Sophia allowed me to pin her with ease – an accepted signal without a second thought. Still, she is as Pandora. Her toes moved independently like her feet. Twitching toes – ten insect-like antennas. I pierced her shell. She swallowed me whole – and I, in turn, came to her resurrection through the friction of my own body. Real enough in this Elysium.
***
A transition will be needed for selection two. At least I have begun. No doubt when draft two is completed draft three will be needed.
More when you return home. See you here on Monday, boy. – Amorella.
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