Skip to main content

Finding view

Winter came early, appearing unannounced,  leaving locals swearing at it's bad timing.

Susan sat in silence listening to the South-Easter howling and giant raindrops pinging on patio doors rattling in winter's wake. Her apartment on the top floor caught the brunt of the storm; the winds in Bloubergstrand were particularly strong; the sea her always beautiful, always feisty neighbour from across the road.
Susan loved her little nest, all 68 square metres of it. She paid a fortune for her views of Table Mountain and Robben Island. She imagined herself  to be a neighbour of the great man; since passed. She was sure his spirit lingered on, in oceans and valleys, on mountains and streets, casting a watchful eye over his beloved country.
"27 years is a long time," she thought, as she bent down to pick crumbs off the carpet.
She smiled a secret smile, pleased with herself for pulling off the homemade meal ; for wowing Paul with her culinary skills: Lasagne and Olive Ciabatta, an all Italian affair.
She peeked out through the misty glass of the patio doors squinting her eyes to make out the table-shaped wonder; the twilight casting her in the softest shades of beautiful.
She sighed with contentment, loving her life, loving this place.

The soft light of sunset coated the lounge in a warm golden glow, it took edges off and smoothed out the dimples and wobbly bits.
Naked came easy in the presence of the majestic mountain that made everything look small in comparison.
She stepped out of her clothes, dropping them on the floor leaving a trail of lust as she headed down the corridor. She ran her fingers over the frames featuring her favourite landscape in the Mother City (Table Mountain, Cape Point, Lion's Head) as she made her way slowly to the bedroom to find him. Paul was sitting on the bed, his eyes downcast, the corner of his mouth turned up, a lecherous look in his eyes.
She got so easily lost in his eyes, dark brown speckled with green, it  glinted wickedly as soon as she came into view. His warm hands glided up caramel legs bringing with it ripples that hit the core of her. She leaned in, his lips brushing against her tummy.
He tilted his head and looked up at her, "Say my name," he implored.
"Paul..." she said like a whisper.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"You," she said, ""
She melded with him, wore him like a jacket.
He stepped back, his face finding shadows, severing the connection, leaving her wanting. She flailed about hitting air, finding nothing, and she veered forward.
"Hard to get?" she asked,  a note of pleading coating a hungry tongue.
"Nuh, just hard," he quipped, "and hungry...but I want it to last..."

The light found his eyes again and she melted in a sea of honey. She licked her lips, latching onto his,  nibbling his bottom lip, her bite becoming more insistent.
"Ouch," he hiss as she drew blood, tasting the saltiness of him.
He drew back, lifting a hand to his mouth, and the light of the moon found him.
"Lines & shapes!" she said out loud pointing at him from where she stood shivering, the carpet  rough against my feet.
She ran her toes over wool ridges.
"What's that?" he asked raising his right brow.
"Can I?" I hesitated..."can I capture you?"
Doubt flickered across his face.
"For me and you?" he asked.
"No, I want everyone to see what I see when I look at you," Susan said swept up, "the curve of the small of your back."
"The arc of your ass."
"Your legs long and lean..."
"Silly," he laughed, yanking her curls. "Come here, you!"
But she evaded his arms, grabbing her camera off the cupboard shelf where she kept it handy.
With the long black lens cupped in her hand, she turned to him.
Her passion doubled.
She pushed him back on the bed, flipped him round:  the curve of his back, the rise of his buttocks caressed by the light of the moon.
She flicked the switch and the camera came to life in her hand, exhilaration coursed through her veins and she planted her feet firmly on the ground, bending her knees slightly, the lens extending as her hand swiveled almost involuntarily.
"You're so pushy," he laughed shifting on the white linen made cold by winter & wanting.
"Shhhh," she silenced him, "do you take instructions well."
"Only if you say please..."
"Please," she said, " raised your ass ever so slightly..."
He listened.
And he did.

She looked through the viewfinder finding the view she liked, focused her shot and fired, the click stirring her passion as she pushed the button down.
She sighed with contentment, loving her life, loving this place.

Popular posts from this blog

Right here, Right now.

The wind whistles & howls, shaking up Cape Town ; waking her weary chidren.

Dazed I wake up for a second time, opening heavy lids to find that Monday had dawned softly. Ribbons of red are slowly beginning to caress the darkness as I stretch out lazy like a cat, lying in the middle of the kingsize bed, my thick winter frame engulfed by fleecy bedding the colour of candy floss.
"Sweet!" I utter out loud to an already empty house as soft light filters in through aluminium blinds making stripes like tattoos on my pale skin.
I should get up, but I am perplexed by the day which stretches ahead of me demanding nothing!
I'm at odds, not used to so much time on my hands, "busy" being my usual setting.

I'm beginning to like this new reality.
The ticking clock by my bedside sets a steady rhythm, as all around me the world is on the go, moving in circles. It's as if the world's forgotten about this one, tiny space. In my cocoon I groggily sit up, twisting m…


Furrows deep and pronounced line my brow. I contemplate them,  willing them away, stroking them gently, each stroke meant to iron them out. I am their canvas, they are my storylines.

I seize my ironing, and listen to their tales.
I feel the cold to my bones!

Not the usual Cape Town cold I grew up with in the Southern Suburbs, but an iciness matching any day spent in Tewkesbury more than a decade ago in the UK.  The kind of cold that requires down feather jackets and knee-high fake fur boots.  The kind of cold that leaves sleet on windshields, and soup pots full.
Central heating!Pah! Our homes in Cape Town are ill-equipped for this kinda torture!
I hug my hot water bottle to me like a long lost lover, it's squishy, and pot-bellied and jiggles when I squeeze it. Raising the white mug to my lips, I slurp the almost scalding coffee quickly. My fifth cuppa and it's only 10:42am. Two bars glow bright orange at me. Mikey hogs the heater, and Georgie sits on top of the TV cabinet like a …

The Road to Al Dhaid

I wake up from a deep sleep, startled by silence and a bed devoid of him. I lay spread eagled, entangled in white cotton sheet, a sense of solitude overwhelming me as soon as I open my eyes.

The desert heat clings to my body while a pale moon tries it's best to break through thick, brown silky drapes. I drag myself up, feeling a twinge in my lower back and pull the clawing nightdress down thick hips and thighs.
Middle age bringing unwelcome changes.

My feet hit lukewarm tiles as I stumble the short distance to the window, hanking the brown open to reveal the the mosque the colour of sand.  In the distance it's soft lights are alluring against a dark sky.
The call to prayer begins as I stand silently staring out at University City Road. No screeching tyres, honking horns, or irate drivers to disturb the peace. Only an ocassional early morning traveller making his way along the quiet streets of sleepy Sharjah.
The adhan is soothing and I am instantly alert, a sense of urgency gu…