Hey guys, this is just a bit that I came up with, and after working it over some, I thought I would share it with y'all, see what you think. Comments and critiques are very welcome; both about the mechanics of the writing, and the subject itself. =)
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Always the writer, she tries to describe the feeling of lying in her love’s arms. It is a difficult task, and she casts about for some time. This is like . . . it’s like . . . oh, how do I explain it? There’s a certain savor; it’s sweet. Sweet, and innocent. Like . . . like vanilla ice cream! That is the appeal of vanilla, she is certain. Plain and simple, yet rich and pure, a single high, sweet note. Yet, even though it is exquisite, it still manages to be common. Friends could do this, she thinks. They could lie close, and even draw light, lazy curlicues on each other’s plams, and no one would think it strange. They could enjoy that, as well.
But there is something that makes this different. There’s a certain . . . thrill that runs underneath it all, that creeps up on her occasionally. It’s as if a small, dark girl with pigtails is pulling on her pants leg. “Guess what, guess what, guess what!” the girl exclaims, grinning wide without her two front teeth. Bemused, she looks down at the little girl. “What am I guessing?” The girl jumps up and down again, excitedly. “Guess!” She laughs, even more confused. “I have to guess what I’m guessing about?” “Yep!” The little girl nods vigorously, beaming, and then lightly skips away, pigtails flying as she giggles to herself about her marvelous secret.
The writer, she wants to run after her, and find a way to discover this secret. Instead, she searches her love’s face; the flash of his smile, his tender gaze. Does he feel it too, this mysterious element that pounces and then sidesteps her grasp, slipping through her fingertips and remaining ever-so elusive? Is it what people call “chemistry?”
She reconsiders the metaphor. Vanilla ice cream doesn’t take into account this darting, feinting edge, this heart-pounding force that swirls into being, and just as soon vanishes, leaving her with only a fleeting taste of its glory. What does it savor of? Mint, perhaps? That intense, cold gale that scours with icy daggers, leaving her feeling more alive than she ever thought possible? Or is it cinnamon, a rich red flame that quickens the palate with ecstacy, and consumes completely?
Perhaps it is both at once? Both energizing and sapping, cold and hot, made of fire and ice, tumultuous and calming? Whatever it is, she cannot deny its effects. Their comfortable embrace is electrified; the menagerie of butterflies in her stomach stirred into exhilarating chaos. She knows that it would only take a certain amount of vanilla ice cream to be satisfied, but she could never grow tired of this.
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