You take my breath away
A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou – but not necessarily in that order.
Birds sung this sunny morning outside the middle window at 8D Pete Street. Yesterday, Henry had his safety on. Last night, Sheena had her groove on. This morning, knee-ther had nigh-ther. Darkness may hide our flaws for the moment but the light frees the eyes to see all. Today, the sight twice blinded by the night, would be one of those days.
Henry Peck was dead – to the world. Sheena Waderwicz was from another world – one might say. She never allowed her sense to be overruled by sensibility but that didn’t mean she wasn’t occasionally sentimental or sensitive. What was it that Henry was going to say before I slapped it out of him?
Sheena had seen him put a in his pocket yesterday, a note with a pocket full of meaning. She must see it. She must know these last words he had for he. Still sans a stitch, Sheena slipped from the sheets, straddled her pal, and slithered up the bed, foot to head.
The sudden movement and soft contact stirred Henry, but not to complete consciousness. His eyes never opened but he thought he knew what was up.
“Let’s wait a while, I’m sore,” he lied. The likely reason for his disinterest was his flagging energy rather than his floppy excuse.
“You’re sore?” shot back Sheena, at once disbelieving and indignant and actually sore. She continued, “Rest easy cowboy, you deserve it. Don’t mind me. I can do it all. I’m here to please.”
With her last words, Henry quickly deflated back into his dream world. Sheena had advanced stealthily and commando on her belly from the perimeter, to his weapons cache, and now she hovered above the single snoring sentry.
Still straddling, she quickly placed each of her knees on each of his shoulders to gain advantage. Sheena rendered her objective helpless and, this time, handcuffs need not apply.
A sudden chill came over the intrepid hero. What will happen next? If I don’t complete my mission before Henry opens his eyes, he’ll see me in a whole new light! Sheena’s concerns were valid. Henry had never even seen beneath Sheena’s clothing, let alone further. They were in complete darkness both times they were intimate. Yes, there was a giant lech in this pint size gigolo that expected him to search and debauch. But there was also the adorable dolt of decency that implored him, unsuccessfully, to hide his eyes at the site of a cleavage dip and avert his gaze when the wind turned a skirt up.
Henry’s dueling gland Joes courted their arguments while decency rested. Questions such as: What is descent?, What is fashionable?, and What would Larry Flynt do?, swirlled around Judge Henry’s crowded cortex. A split decision usually yielded. A compromise between lechery and decency. Henry kept one eye wide shut.
Fortunately, for Henry’s other cheek, Sheena didn’t waste a penny on his thoughts. This person persisted in her persevering pursuit to pick her partner’s pants pockets, the pleats plainly posited on the bedpost post-night. Doesn’t this guy ever change clothes? Although, she did notice that these wear-and-wear abominations were crisply clean – like new. The plastic tagging barbs wiggling, still alive and well, their feelers made Henry’s frightening fashion even creepier.
Start with the back pocket. Wrong…just a receipt with her address in her handwriting…oh yeah. Next, the right front pocket. Oh yeah, didn’t need this for last night. Important progress! Finally, she found it in the other back pocket. The yellow sticky epiphany written in the supernatural script of a cartoon canine.
Sheena exhaled open mouthed and collapsed onto Henry. His chest collapsing undo her sudden distress. The sticky note falling from her hand, the words whispered from her lips…
“Fish don’t know that they’re wet.”