A Minor Tour.
09:19 | 
Posted by
Tony Foster
When you woke me in the morning, there was a difference, some skewed scent to flare the nostrils with encouragements of unbelief. But you snorted and pawed the covers away and I forgot about it while you parted the curtains, landscaping the room in hills of gold. Under the patchwork, my shape stretched and contoured and I felt again - just for a moment - that coppery whiff of posterity, a fallen idol wrought alive, sunned and vital again, while ageless, localised dust-devils played in our skulls.
The way I clattered downstairs had us giggling. A drunken clasping of fitments aided the descent and you didn’t mind that my lunges swiped a tarnished brass barometer from the wall. Each clomping, perilous step evoked sharpened vignettes of recollection, each snuffed out by the last.
- Black grapes in a bunch, their sweet innards drowning thickly in our mouths to overflow and stain our robes.
- Tiny skulls on a string, stirred by a fetid wind.
- Concubines in a line, shadowed by flame-flicker and curving, calico-slung breasts.
- Hooded silhouettes in a circle, chanting ogreishly.
- The cold feel of sweat slowly condensing, bathing our backs and thighs with caresses of ancient stone.
What a night it must have been!
“They are no good to us now, these things,” you say, mooching over the wreckage. “We’ll have to do away with them.”
“They’re our worldly possessions,” I answer, but I am smiling too. Never has there been so much wonder in the world, and with all the real senses to appreciate it. My hands are rough shovels that crushed pepper-pots and left imprints in skillets with their eagerness to consummate. Your feet are too robust for dancing, but there is an implied sashay, as you walk, of flank and wither, that is at once both exclusively female and inclusively arousing.
“Besides, I say,” as we revel in the cloy of one another, the musk of our union still binding the granite worktops, the gouges from our heels scoring the rustic tiles. “There’s no Sunday any more. No paper. No Sky sports.”
Even as I speak the words are clogging under a thick tongue, knurling themselves through a bronchial slur. They won’t be familiar for much longer.
You don’t answer but a wet toss of the nose frames a question. This is how it will be from now on, and we’ve never been so happy to slough off this pale skin to claim it.
“What now, my love? Why, we go out! To the hills we came from, to claim our pasture. It’s a fine day for grazing, and for resting my brisket upon your fine back. This life has no claim on us. We should take off our rings to celebrate.”
“You say all the right things,” she smiles. “Let’s go.”
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