A/N: I'll say this before you read: Please leave a comment. I really liked this particular short piece, and so I ask you to review. I won't be updating for a long time, since I won't be having the time, so I ask you, please, leave a small review? Thank you. (Also a generous thank you to Kennedy Leigh Morgan for reviewing - always so faithful to my updates :D) Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Not mine. 'Wicked' belongs to Gregory Maguire.
020. Colorless.
Darkness
I watch her breathing steady to a peaceful rhythm after a night of ardent lovemaking. She bemuses me. It isn't her influence she has on other people, even on me, that I admire of her, no. It's her passion: her fervent passion, her devotion, so avid; she seems to lose herself; she seems to be oblivious to anything around her when she's determined on something. It amazes me, and I admire her.
She sleeps now, tranquil as she does, the glassy moonlight caressing her skin, making it look downy, silkier than it already is. Her skin is soft and supple, with an emerald tone that dazzles and enthralls me like nothing else; quite a treasure. I don't think she even acknowledges the wild beauty of it, its splendor. It is extravagant to the eye; it is exquisite.
Her hair, another object of appreciation, is as smooth as silk too, and I love to touch and play with it – so soft, so velvety – just to annoy her occasionally: it aggravates her sometimes, but she lets it go; she knows that I adore that charming hair of hers. I watch the graceful fall of it on the muffled pillow and suppress the longing that it creates within me. I don't wish to wake her, for it would only result in bedlam. Its blackness is the perfect color, I observe, blending into the night like an ideal disguise – a nightly facade. It only suits her.
But in the dull darkness, however, it is hard to distinguish the delicate colors that embroider every aspect of her. Her skin is no longer that fascinating emerald, and her dim hair mingles with the night itself, making her look pale, washing away that natural masquerade. I hold my breath, afraid that I might wake her, and watch her some more. She looks beautiful – she is beautiful – and this only promotes my affection further onwards. Her colorless self serves only as a proof that there is more to my affection that just lust. And so, I believe that she, when our bodies are covered with only a thick layer of darkness – though not thick enough to prevent the fervent passion to grow –, knows it: I love her. She doesn't voice it, nor do I, so it becomes a mutual understanding. I assume, in effect, that, even if she won't admit it, even if she's reluctant to recognize it, she feels the same, but does not allow herself to. Yet, I notice, she sees through me, through my unusual complexion, through my position in politics, through my own veneer. And I see through her – or as much as she allows me too, which is possibly more than anyone has ever been permitted to. It is now that I understand: love does not distinguish; love does not tell apart. That is what mislays her: love does not discriminate between people.
I smile at myself, at my reasoning, at my silliness, satisfied and tired, at last, of such a large amount of thinking. I accommodate myself into the bed, embracing her by her waist, needing to feel her close, and I kiss her forehead for no reason at all. She has this beauty I cannot resist and, in my rather light sleep, I conclude, finally, that love – our love – is, in a way, colorless.