Portraits

DANI
Sadness filled the dark room where Dani Lynn sat. The silence engulfed her as the screen glowed harsh against her faded tan and short blonde hair. But even working couldn’t take her mind off him. With every word she wrote, her thoughts turned. Every sentence. Every breath. She wanted to reach out and touch his heart. His mind. She wanted those things that would never be hers. She dressed for him on any day she thought brought hope, and she sighed most nights, lovelorn.
Dani had his flesh, though, and yet not completely. She could never adorn him with the marks she ached to leave. She could never have him in the abundance she craved. She thought too often of his flesh. Warm and smooth beneath her hands, stirring and hard beneath her mouth. It excited her to have her mouth on him, pulling and tugging, sucking. It excited her, his quickness to come, his appreciation of her gentle, imperfect curves. It excited her and left her wanting. He was also quick to leave.
Dani didn’t kid herself. She knew she would never walk with him hand in hand beneath the glorious sun, the soft sounds of summer drifting on the too warm breeze. She would never look at him longingly, openly for the world to see. Or lean back into his warm embrace for comfort. Her desire for him was hers alone, and she would hold it close and keep it safe, guard it well. Caressingly, lovingly, she would bring it out on those starry nights, and touch herself while thoughts of him drifted hazily off into a softly muttered, oh. And then silence would again engulf her.
No, Dani didn’t kid herself, but took what he allowed and was thankful. He brought her to the brink and she was afraid to lose even a single instance of feeling alive.
Dani turned toward the bed and slid beneath the cool fresh sheets, and touched her husband’s warm back. She pulled the linens close and huddled tightly on the edge of the bed and slept fitfully, dreaming of the unknown.

VERA
Vera sometimes thinks of her brother, not the one she grew up with, but the one her mother miscarried the year before she was born. She feels bound to him, that she may be leading his life, that if he had survived, Vera herself, never would have been, that it’s not her mother’s Murphy blood that continually thwarts her, but his fate – interrupting.
He haunts her dreams and many waking moments. He has for years. And yet, there is the briefest occasion when she sees him so clearly she could weep. His name is Sadness, Remorse, Despair, and her love for him is unbearable, unshakable, and even palpable at times.
He kisses Vera on the cheek and her heart bleeds for the touch of him. She wakes, to too cool flesh still responding to the heat of his touch, and ponders Freud, and though he reminds her of her father, tall and lithe with dark hair and the sallow skin of the Portugese, yet he does not necessarily have the look of him. And what did Freud say of women? We are the non-entities.