THE HIDDEN TRACK

The following passages are dedicated to Leopold, to the vernacular, to certain evil women (you know who you are), to certain wonderful people(they know who they are), to soft afternoons and quiet Sunday evenings, to Fall and seeing your breath for the first time since Spring, and to Isabelle Ya Feng ... a soul slipped by like two ships passing in the still, moonlit sea.
-- Abraham Ahmed, the Surfing Beatnik



The common afterthought...

He checked and could simply not locate his wallet from whence he had last placed it.

He turned to address the laughing. She stood, leaning, clutch and shoes in hand, waiting in the doorway...

Face a'glow...
Tall...
Warm...
Perfect...

He lifted the comforter from the bed's edge and slapped his hand down over his wallet victoriously and slipped it into his back pocket. He walked over to the bedroom's corner and lifted his jacket from the chair using two of his fingers.

The room smelt sweet from her perfume and his freshly shaven face, ironed cloths, and sound assurance of new socks.

He paused and let his eyes cast affectionately at the stunning being in his midst.
He bit the lower left portion of his lip and turned back to toss the coat onto the bedspread.
He walked forward to the inquiries of what and the reminders of timeliness and embarassment of tardiness.

He extended his two hands, forefingers and thumbs and slipped them gently around and above the woman's narrow hips.
He allowed his face to fall slowly into her neck and he breathed-in the intake of a surfacing victim.

He touched his cheek to hers and allowed his lips to meet her right ear...
He paused...
He whispered...
He absorbed...
He appreciated...

He savored deeply
the imacculate existance
of her very moment
in his time on their earth.

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