There’s a flurry of a snowstorm out my window, the sky sits stark as flurries dizzies themselves from the ground and speckles the streets. The wind startles the window, with its deep howl, more snow billows from the trees.
Water from the bin over my heater has evaporated. And it’s still a wonder that to touch the window is to touch the cold, without actually touching the cold air. The snow blows diagonals as a rush of cloud softens the scene: cars sleeping under snowy blankets, trees dressed in icy jewelry, houses dusted in sugar.
And I’m here in the warmth of my blanket in the soft of my bed, flicking for my nipple to harden. This snow will erase all the him’s in my life and remind me of the multiple me’s. Yet there are sounds in the house and my breast feels cool once I withdraw my hand. A single sharp footstep, doors creaking, all this wind. Neighbours’ movement. Being startled too easily, ecstasy tainted by fear. It all too hard to understand what I want.
The science of reading haunts like a headache. I dropped my book, as it can only stimulate my mind and I seek to stimulate the body. So with a deep breath and deep lunge under underwear, my hand starts a journey and finally, finally I please myself. Erased all guilty attachments. The freedom to moan and hear my voice echo in an empty room arouses me more. One witness. Multiple orgasms.
I can lie down in bed past the noon hour with lulling eyes and fingers twisting my hair. A smell captured in blankets rises when I release myself. A pleasure felt only when being alone. And it’s hellishly cold out there, but I’m ok. Even the beige pillows sit up like a lazy lover. This thought holds no melancholy for me. The hum from the heater sits on my chest. A morning tear. Maybe it’s peace.
By: Whitney French
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