This month's challenge was:
- misadventure - mishap; an instance of bad luck
- satire - literary works in which vices, follies, etc. are held up to ridicule and contempt; the use of ridicule, sarcasm, etc. to attack follies, vices, etc.
- pottage - a kind of thick soup or stew
- noggin - a small mug or cup; head
- russet - yellow brown, or reddish brown; a winter apple with a mottle skin
When I headed out on this trip, I never expected it to turn into such a misadventure. My mind had dreamed of sunshine, flowers, ocean spray, sand between my toes. I envisioned evening shows, and afternoons spent at the swim up bar enjoying every kind of fruity cocktail the bartender could concoct. Who knew, maybe even a fling with said bartender. Cue the movie 'Cocktail' running through my mind.
Okay, so it totally did start out that way. Only, it wasn't the bartender. It was a beautiful man with a warm, rich, accent - French to be precise. His skin was tanned a summery russet and his hair, dark and wavy, fell down to his jaw.
He was warm and dreamy...and sensual. I'd had my fair share of romances and interludes. Well, maybe not my 'fair' share but enough to almost count on one hand. Not including the finger prod by my short term, drum playing boyfriend in high school and the too-quick-to-count behind-his-girlfriend's-back encounter with the captain of the soccer team in college.
It was incredible. Everything I could have imagined, did imagine. I was living out the romance of an erotic novel. We were hot together, groping almost non-stop throughout the day regardless of where we were. We were like a warm thick pottage, he would say. He devoured me in ways I never knew existed. He left me satiated and yet not; my hunger for him could never be completely squelched. Though, while I lay tangled in his arms and legs I felt a never ending ebullience.
As it turns out our togetherness was a satire of what I had presumed it to be. I reached for the noggin of coffee as I stared out over the ocean, watching the sun prepare the sky for dawn. Rich purples and deep reds strewn along the horizon and grew up into the sky. The sun, an immensely large and bright orange ball began to erupt from the water's horizon.
I blamed him all the while knowing I was really the one at fault. We fell into each other, in love with the taste of each other and how explosive our union together was. He was in love with my mind as much as my body, he had told me.
If only he hadn't reached for the phone. If only I had told him...before. If only I hadn't lied to him, to myself. I blew at the dandelion I had picked along my morning walk wishing I could go back in time - to the moment I met him. Not my French love whose trust I broke, but the man whom I so recklessly and irresponsibly gave my life to all those years ago.
A heartfelt wish that would never come true.
This was a free-flow story and I didn't really go back through it - I'm going to let it stand alone, as is (because I think it is pretty good for a first run through and because I'm five minutes late getting out the door). :-)
[The link didn't copy over; I'll put it up here when I get home this afternoon. Either check back or leave your link in the comments!] THANK YOU AND HAPPY FRIDAY!!! FWFD of the weeeeeeek!