Slowly he lifts the hem of her burka. Her slim brown legs part, beckoning his tongue to explore her hidden recesses....From the floor-to-ceiling window of their high-rise, the Sydney Opera House glistens in the sunset... she turns and catches him staring, mesmerized by her silhouette, her filmy dress barely concealing her thighs....
Giggling in delight, she disappears from view as she pulls the Shetland wool sweater over her head; in the chill Scottish air her nipples harden as he watches....
And in south Florida, a writer smiles secretly at her laptop; today her words have lured a small universe of readers who dream her own dream: a vision of silky skin in shades of clam shell and bronze, salmon-pink and cafe au lait, and breath rising and falling in the deepening hush of release.
Solitude is a luxury. In the hours that I slip not away from the distractions of the world, but so deeply into them that I emerge into a pure conviction of what's universal, I send a version of myself across time lines, datelines, and oceans.
Often silence echoes back. But sometimes, Yes, I hear from the waves. You have spoken the wisdom of my body.
From that distant witness, my afterglow is earned.
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