Some semi-adult fiction for Sunday Photo Fiction (4.12.16) – Hope I didn’t step over the PG line too far.
“Gotta love the moustache,” I thought, looking at my companion.
The steam of his breath forms a rime of frost on his walrus whiskers furthering the illusion he is an Artic denizen not an urban academic.
“Gemma,”he reprimands with laughter in his voice, “you are here to study the lemmings, not my moustache”
“Your pride and joy,” I thought, “your lover, your child, your soul.”
Certainly when we fornicate – making love is for lovers – we appear animalistic in our luxuria – his moustache tickles my bare breasts.
At conferences, he strokes those whiskers (like he stokes my thighs) oh so knowledgeable; his lemmings as bellwethers of global warming.
“I am his lemming,” I write, “I warm, I follow.”
As he sleeps sound with the pill I slipped into his coco, I shave off those impressive whiskers.
I take a twist – wrap ends in coloured thread – a memento; a token of his lust and my arched back aching for knowledge.
To find a little, chin-less, baby man-child. Did all his power, like Sampson, flow from that pile of dead hair?
I wait outside the tent, watching the hoar frost grow on the impossible branch in lemming land.