virus or yeast

Edmond stared out the window, watching the unhunted foul feed.  A hint of rain clouded his view just enough.  Inspiration eluded him like a nomadic rash.  He scratched, the itch moved.  Sitting at a hotel desk, Edmond spoke aloud, the stone walls helpless to answer.  Why am I here?  Furthermore, if I wonder why I am here, am I necessarily HERE.   …   ?
“Edmond, will you be going on like this all night?”  Her voice beckoned from the freshly made bed.  Wrapped in silk suggestiveness and comely contrasts of low and high, her black-laced thighs promised freedom from worry.  He nearly fell to the peril.
“All night, woman?  All night?”  His was the voice of accidental antagonism.  “I will go on like this until the VERY night.”  He neither huffed, nor puffed.
He lurched his mass across the wooden floor, the solid uncreaking wooden floor, until his velocity cooled with subsonic severity in front of the record player.
“We will listen to this bliss or be resigned to God’s bowels.”  Edmond instructed.
“It will be bliss if it is not spoken first and felt afterward.”  She quipped.
Edmond glanced quickly at her sinister mocking lip.  How it curled in such a disgusting taunt.  Like panties on the playground.
“It will be bliss if uttered or not.”  He criticized.
At this she shrunk.  What had been her perfect nubile posture turned to that of a common shrimp.  Eros coughed, sighed, and curtailed from the hotel bed.
Edmond brought in one great breath, and with no repercussion in mind offered: “My dear.  Of this world may you be or not.  Of my mind, you are a disease, though I know not if you are virus or yeast.”

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December 2010
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