I ate my way through two painful tonnes of solid iron. She still wasn’t attracted to me.
As we huddled next to the fire, our huddling turned to closeness which turned to kissing which turned to extreme kissing which turned into a night of passion.
I confess I brought on that ice-age so you’d huddle with me.
He paced all morning, never far from the window – stopping every three or four times around to peer out, stretching his eyes for a glimpse of her, but she was never there. When he tried to write to her even that didn’t work; what he settled on at last was writing simply “Your Valentine loves you” before he folded the scrap of paper and pushed it through the bars, to drift like a butterfly to the ground outside far below.
Sweat glistened on bodies joined in carnal dance, trickled over softly rounded landscapes, dipped into secret valleys, while the frenzy increased. After echoes of the last soaring crescendo diminished, the slickened bodies separated, heartbeats slowed, and passion cooled the weeping love had ignited.
I met a beautiful woman today, twice: the first time she kissed me and warned of impending doom; the second she had no idea who I was.
I have to figure this out, before it kills me.
It was hard for her when, in all their fashionably bohemian passions, they spoke of love, for she, too, had much to say on the matter. But how could she have told them that she was in love with words?
I met my husband at the circus and he was not a silly clown or an arrogant lion tamer or even an overly muscled trapeze man.
He owned the arena and I fell for him immediately.