Clara’s inexperienced heart strove to sort out the bitter conundrum tearing her apart: she loved them both.
It was love she felt. Love for Walker and love for Winston.
Walker was the dizzy inebriation of first love spiced to irresistibility by the hint of the forbidden.
Oh the very promise of that agony was deliciously erotic!
A horrified scrutiny of her deeper feelings showed her this. Her immaturity craved the heightened passion of that pain. He was unsuitable, impossible, he had nothing to offer her. There was no stability there, nothing to build on; only that mutual fascination, the craving of two damaged creatures for someone who was the very same.
Winston, now. Winston was something else again.
There was a cleanness to him, an untainted tenderness - a calm warmth that enfolded her. She could look into his eyes and see no shadows of either remorse or waiting rancor. He made her smile.
She could not think, or see, or be with him without feeling a smile unfold her lips.
Late in the night, she’d think his name and feel an involuntary smile curve the cheek tucked under her hand.
Winston dancing in the market balancing a pineapple on his head; Winston quipping with a raised eyebrow; Winston naked, tucking a scarlet hibiscus behind his ear like an odalisque, his grin challenging her. There was nothing tortured or frightening there; no desperate need for assurances of forever.
Only a light-hearted complicity devoid of complication.
Only the promise of peace.
Only contentment.
It was love she felt. Love for Walker and love for Winston.
Walker was the dizzy inebriation of first love spiced to irresistibility by the hint of the forbidden.
Oh the very promise of that agony was deliciously erotic!
A horrified scrutiny of her deeper feelings showed her this. Her immaturity craved the heightened passion of that pain. He was unsuitable, impossible, he had nothing to offer her. There was no stability there, nothing to build on; only that mutual fascination, the craving of two damaged creatures for someone who was the very same.
Winston, now. Winston was something else again.
There was a cleanness to him, an untainted tenderness - a calm warmth that enfolded her. She could look into his eyes and see no shadows of either remorse or waiting rancor. He made her smile.
She could not think, or see, or be with him without feeling a smile unfold her lips.
Late in the night, she’d think his name and feel an involuntary smile curve the cheek tucked under her hand.
Winston dancing in the market balancing a pineapple on his head; Winston quipping with a raised eyebrow; Winston naked, tucking a scarlet hibiscus behind his ear like an odalisque, his grin challenging her. There was nothing tortured or frightening there; no desperate need for assurances of forever.
Only a light-hearted complicity devoid of complication.
Only the promise of peace.
Only contentment.
Only now.
Manuela Cardiga
Manuela Cardiga
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