Vignette 5
"It isn't possible to love and part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you." -E.M. Forster, A Room with a View
Satin slippers were gripped between a delicate fist as she dipped her feet in the water. She shivered, her toes curling. There was something in the air. A sensuous, tempting feeling that awakened every sense in her body. It weighed down the hot, warm air as locks of hair hung from her chignon and stuck to her white swan neck. Buttons were unbuttoned to just below her collarbone yet teased at the cotton-clad bosom. Peppered with shadow and light alike, under the interwoven branches that hung overhead, she knew she made a pretty picture. The forest was their accomplice that afternoon—a picturesque accessory. Ensconced in their own world, satiated by security and comfort, she reveled in the slight naughtiness to the whole rendezvous.
But he…?
She looked slyly back and smiled, a sensuous one, as she met his eye and knew he had been admiring. He laid languorously on his side, propped on an elbow, and something about the casualness of his stature, the fit of his wrinkled shirt, or the gleam in his eye that made her lift her feet from the water.
Lifting her skirt, she slipped back into the satin but did not drop the hem as she walked back to him. Dampened lace clung to her ankle and fabric billowed around her, caressing his leg, as she laid on her belly, stretched out like a content cat. In one rash move, he could close the distance and irrevocably alter this into a matter that could not be misconstrued as pure.
"What are you thinking about, my pet?" he mused.
She hummed, "about how much I love you, darling."
The careless way she uttered the words tore savagely at him, but he had yearned for so long he did not care. Even if she did not mean it.
They burst out into deceiving bouts of laughter. She at the absurdity of the situation, him at himself. Teetering along the lines of pretense, they dipped their toes in cool crystal water, retracting before they toppled in and drowned.
"You are a poor actress, Scarlett. Not even the most foolish man would believe you."
"Well, how else are you meant to say it?! Have you ever told a woman you loved her before? I doubt it," she replied haughtily, tossing her head in that enticing way. He brushed the truth of her words away and gave her his heart. Lacerated, shredded, bleeding.
"I love you."
She stopped smiling. His dark eyes raptured her; his mouth caressed the tenderly said words. Pure, naked, natural words. As if he had meant it. Had he been any other man, she would have believed him. She held her shaking breath. His hand was only a few feet away. His mouth, his lips—even closer. Her skirts already took one step, draped suggestively over his long legs. She bit her rosy lips, the breeze tickling her cool, wet skin.
Her body trembled while waiting. Waiting for him, who was waiting for her.
And the moment passed.
"Why, I nearly believed you. You must've practiced in front of a mirror or something."
He chuckled, without humor.
Scarlett sat up, uneasily to her feet, and returned to the bank, the lace bidding farewell to his skin, and she dipped her toes in the water.