Post

Silent Conversation


RR, BG, and WO conspired to begin with the two following short paragraphs and to each offer a story in this experience group.  We did this for our own pleasure and for that of each other.   The situations and characters are real, more or less.

In the dim light coming from the bulb over the stove, she stood at the sink looking not so much out the kitchen window, but rather at the glass, total darkness on the other side.  Her reflection told her of her years, and she stroked her cheek with the back of her right hand, then swept a large lock of hair from her forehead and covering her eye back onto the top of her head.  Yes, a bit of gray was there among the dark strands.  “Look what’s become of us” she said softly to herself as she saw his reflection in the glass approaching from behind.  Ever since he’d replaced the old tile floor, that man in bare feet was as silent as a cat.  His arms now around her waist, she felt his lips against her fleshy collarbone, then the gentle bite of his teeth at the base of her neck.  She tilted her head to the left and moaned gently, encouraging him.  He wasn’t much of a talker, nor a listener, never had been.

Soon it would be morning, and she thought not of him, with whom she’s shared the past 4 ½ years, but rather of another, with whom she had seen the most brilliant sunrises of her young adulthood.  Then, everything seemed possible, the entire world at her disposal.  That man and his friends, Steve and Drew, along with her friend, Cherie, were exploring. Others disapproved.  Now, sunrise meant duty.  Then, sunrise meant that the potential for adventure was only half finished before her body would demand sleep.

This night, they had arranged to meet on the subway platform, later than usual.  It bothered him that her concept of time was from her birthplace, where a point on the clock was merely a suggestion, something to give an idea of whether “tomorrow” meant morning or night.  Exact times were impossible or not worth the effort in most cases.  He forgave her this way of living, not that she sought to be forgiven, and he knew that it just was the way she was.  Take this away, and she would be someone else.  He loved her for her.  He had to guess which side.  They hadn’t specified.  She wasn’t there.  The conversation was between light and dark, and he listened to it, watched it happen.


 


They'd known each other for six weeks.  Drew and Cherie had embarked on a torrid sexual adventure, totally unsustainable, and he remembered the night he met the little bird he now awaited.  They’d been introduced one evening when Cherie had asked Drew to bring a friend, and Cherie had produced her as the fourth.  All of them of them ended up in a hotel room full of drunken sleeping bodies.  When Cherie began stripping her prize amidst those unmoving shapes, possibly asleep, possibly not, the two of them had left and gone to the lobby, where they spent the next six hours in serious, intense conversation.  These were “what do you stand for?” and “what will you do when you get there?” 

kinds of thoughts being exchanged.  The next three weeks had found them up all night more often than not, but far more relaxed, trusting, and prone to laughter.  She’d said to him once, sounding a little hurt: “You only kiss me when you’re drinking,” and he felt the sting of it.  He knew it was true, and it was his shyness.  Resolving to change that, and crazy wild for her mind and body, her conversation and flesh, he’d begun kissing her frequently during their nights up and alone together. 
  



 
Really, they were never alone.  They shared these hours of darkness while most of the rest of the city slept together and talking, kissing, touching, and entwined together, but people were always happening by.  The first time they’d had sex, a bartender from the main bar had come to the closed rooftop bar at about 1:00 am to get some ice from a freezer, while they were physically one on a collection of chair cushions on the rooftop garden, him thrusting and her fingernails deep in the flesh of his back.  The barman paused for a few seconds, then went on about his business.  He made no mention of having seen them, but certainly he must have.

This night, hours before their agreed meeting on the platform, they had committed to speak nothing.  Their conversation would be solely by facial expression, body language, and touch.  It was a worthy experiment, her idea, which he very much enjoyed.

As he flicked the butt of his fourth cigarette onto the tracks, he heard her footsteps descending the stairs.  Two trains had stopped while he smoked and moved on, nearly empty at this time of night.  He knew the rhythm of her feet on stairs, and he went to the sound.  They were alone and embraced.  She put her finger vertically to his lips, reminding him of their pact.  He nodded and traced his hand down her back, her floral summer dress cut low in back.  They kissed.  His hands went to her thighs, just above the knees, lifting her dress as his touch moved upward.  A third train approached, the sound becoming louder, wheels squealing on the rails in the tunnel as train and tracks found a curve in this world without words.

He tugged her hand for her to rise when they approached the stop for what he had in mind.  Not speaking was excruciating for both, but they hadn’t studied each other’s eyes and faces since that long serious conversation the night that they first met.

She knew that they were creatures of the night, and they followed the dark street to the lights two blocks in the distance.  It was a familiar spot.  Somewhere they frequently found themselves late at night, a place to drink and talk and hear some music till the sun appeared, signaling novation of life for others, a continuation for them.  Pausing briefly in that narrow street, he pressed her against the wall of an apartment building, kissing her from forehead to shoulders, rubbing her legs, arousing her desires.  It was just the beginning of their conversation without words that would last this night well into the next day.
 



 
“There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.”   (Friedrich Nietzsche)

 
WildeOscar WildeOscar 51-55, M 5 Responses May 12, 2012

Your Response

Cancel

my dreams of silence have yet to be experienced. thank you for the reminder.

We wrote and read each other's stories without speaking a word. A silent conversation of a kind in this electronic medium.

btw the first picture you chose is the stop for the good bookstore * smile * that's ma hometown

Seventh Ave Line

Another winner, WO. With anything you write that is pretty much a given ;-) How I love interesting and stimulating conversations that last all night. (Oh, and I do like how you topped it off with a bit of Nietzsche...perfect)

Bound, blindfolded, or just relaxed and in our everyday walking around way, I expect that you are a woman a man could converse with until well past the birds begin their morning songs.

Awwwww WO! You made my week... thank you that is so sweet :-)

Not only how the scenario was introduced especially at the last part that I enjoyed the story. The thrill and the fulfilment between adults becoming one while the night becomes deeper.. . the deep seated passion to yeild to each other. But also how you shared yourself. Nothing can express such wonderful night if it hadn't been one of his own memorable experience. Honest and so vivid.<br />
<br />
I myself had some unforgettable experiences with long conversations with yet prospect lovers in the past. One was during my early 20's. It lasted till 4am(!). And which made a sensation among my family and friends. But really it was all but talks and exchange of drinks and cups of coffees (to fight numbness) LOL It was a beautiful and thrilling night. A blessed night. I was loved behind the heart-shaped moon. ha ha<br />
But ofcourse if that kind conversations happened during my mid 30's it could have been a different story. Might have been closer to this story. YAY!! **wink**<br />
Again thanks for a good read.

You struck me as a woman who could converse until dawn. In a way, we have, because of our time difference. Those years from age 20 to age 32 were perfect for all-night conversations. I wish I knew you then.

My oh my, that'll be the " a different story ". Heart beating fast, blood flows rushing to and fro to a Z-zing, who would need caffeine? I'd be up all night, excited!

I love this and conversations that last all night

There is something about the night, and using the sun as an alarm clock, a reminder that you have been up all night and how fleeting the night is when the conversation is compelling.

In these late night conversations you tend to find out a lot about the person

I loved the constant contrast in this!! Almost like a "spiral dance" of thoughts.<br />
I also liked the word deprivation they agreed on.... Take words away and communication...to be understood--becomes more sensory. Not just those well known "wordy" sounds... Wayyy more meaning to be found! Hubs and I frequently play with "silence" AWESOME!!

I tend to write in the third person, but this closely tracks a relationship of mine from my early 20s. There is much to be said for denying one or more senses or forms of expression to heighten others. You and your husband seem very adventurous and well matched.