An antiquated, quiescent horn blared from below the departed dancers, where the sublimated floor enlightened the soles of Martha and Samuel's feet like the underbellies of mermen. Upward swarmed an eruption in she: the materialization of past life. Her gypsy red dress brushed four warm ankles.
And with the sentiments of a long tardy rendezvous, she smiled white: “Oh, Sammy! My peachling!”
Martha's gold anklets transmuted her dress into a tall, chiming bell as she grappled at Samuel Madlong in what appeared to be a queer sort of feline rumba. She removed the dark barrette which had been maintaining her propriety since that day in the coppice when she learned that men like their women submissively groomed. And to look at her now would not suggest a direct sequence of days. For on this dance floor, hair unbound, she orbited her familiar Samuel like a floral miasma, giggling from her belly in a garish Russian accent.
“Remember that night on my Andalusian terracotta flooring?” Martha purred and traipsed her hands sloppily down his yellow vest. “Your hands clutching at my thighs like a wild boar; and me receiving your assault with all the eagerness of a child ready to be enlightened by her swami.”
Samuel raised his shoulders to his ears, bug-eyed, and he stuttered in a bellowing meow a request for something slower. Something less vociferous and more direct. “Punch?”
Such single syllabled words demanded an inflated enunciation: a proper popping of the “p” followed by a stiff, “-cchh.”
She let out from her mouth an agreeing high pitched crow which molted instantaneously into a blaze of light: “Aaaiyheeeeeee!” And with that she hooked their elbows and sacheted over to the refreshments.
Author notes
Tale told in alternating parts with Lanternhearted.
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