Good morning to you all, both new and regular Messagers. Here's your prompt for today.
This is what they had to eat: quails eggs, shelled and dipped in celery salt; seared tuna steak, the smallest new potatoes and asparagus spears with little tubs of butter to pour over; bitter chocolate pots (he fed her using the tip of his little finger.)
This is what they had to drink: crystal jugs full of iced sparkling water (she fished out an ice cube and crunched it between her teeth, icicles sprayed from her mouth as he watched.)
This is what they wore: both arrived in black trousers and white shirts. They laughed and clapped hands, praising each other’s taste (he pulled her red leather belt free from its noose with his teeth, it fell curled like a snake to the floor.)
This is what the room smelt of: beeswax, lavender and the faintest taint of fruit (he rubbed an orange from the fruit bowl over her hair and inhaled.)
This is what they looked at: there was only one painting on the white walls, a black and white etching of an Eric Gill nude, her body curved in ecstasy, hands clasped high above her head. (she put out her forefinger and traced the model’s pubic hair so lightly he shuddered.)
This is what they talked about: how the soul would communicate if it could choose (poetry, he said. Painting, she said, my soul would need colour. Mine too, he said, and he whispered poems into her skin until she started to hear the rainbow.)
This is what she had in her handbag: one key, a chip from the roulette table, a pink lipstick moulded to the shape of her lips (he painted her mouth, careful not to go over the edges, and then when he finished he licked the whole thing off before starting all over again.)