Mrs. Dalloway's Coffee Break

  The speck of light through eye lids, not even a speck of light, but a shadow of light; the morning! of having slept through the night, that precious speck of a shadow of light through the eye lids, and the pleasant feeling of sleep slowly escaping through the throat and chest, through the tips of one’s breasts and through armpits. One stretches and lets out a little moan of pleasure, turns on one’s back, the residual sleep escaping through the belly button and vagina, through one’s biceps and elbows and forearms and fingers, and one lifts up her arms in the air, the speck of a shadow of light grows a bit more lucid, a bit more solid, a bit more demanding and a bit more urgent, daring one to open her eyes, daring one to see the morning, but no, not quite yet, not just quite yet, because remnants of sleep and dream are still slowly escaping through her. Now they move through her hips and her buttocks and her cheeks and her mouth, and one sighs an audible sigh for the room to hear...

  1. Hello, are you The Acrobat? I am Alexandra, The Comic Book Tattoo. Where would you bite me if I gave you permission to do that, once? Where would you kiss me? How would you want to hold me? And did you hold me once, many years ago, in a dream? The fragilest, smallest touch of our fingers then, index fingers  touching index fingers, middle fingers touching middle fingers,  almost not but I feel it, and as I look at our hands  almost intertwined I feel such a rush of excitement I lose my  breath, my knees give, I feel my body electrify as a current of  immense, overpowering want floods me. I don’t remember what color the sky was, only that it was bright, the moon was there, and inside the hedge a dove cooed. I wake up and realize I am aroused and lie very still  trying to let the feeling pass in its own time, and it takes a long while  before my body calms down again. An ancient reminder of how one is helpless before emotion  s...

  Are we needing to cater and cow down, endlessly, in front of the imagined other, who will tear us apart anyway? The carelessness comes after taking care of business, but the brightness is so fast to hide from me. Now, I can see it. Now, I cannot. Listen, can you hear the birdsong now and now and now, as the dragonflies gather and the light is the brightness, so much so that in communicating with myself I am communicating with the universe, my closest person who looks after me, my friends and family, and the holiest of holy, the interpreter of my emotions, the conveyor, the immaterial lover who is touching me to make sure I am still here, relentless, proud, myself, frail. I become lust in the evening sun and feel warmth on my face and toes and hear the ice clinking in the glass as invitation to better things. The liquid is orange and pink and I feel how my body relaxes, it is hot to sit in the sun. Physicality means more in the summer, the heat brings me closer to my core self...

We are not great friends. In fact, I have only seen you once, at an event we both frequent. I have no idea what kind of woes or joys you have in your life, and they aren’t any of my business.   The last couple of nights I have been having vivid dreams about my ex-husband. In each of these dreams we have been on the verge of reconciliation, and this has been something I have very much wanted; the dreams have been a continuous showcasing of what a wonderful wife I could be if he would just let me, and him accepting my many offerings but remaining mean and distant, and if not mean, then taciturn and avoiding eye contact and not returning any of my gestures of warmth. Since I have no desire of reconciliating with him in real life, the dreams keep leaving me perplexed and emotionally drained. We did not leave things well, and the easiest and most probable explanation to the dreams is that my mind keeps working on the downfall of the relationship and my part in it, and of course th...

I wake up with a start in a foreign bed in what is obviously a hotel room. A nondescript, fuzzy peach colored room with twilit shadows creeping on textured wall papers from between the Venetian blinds. Evening. An alarm of some sort has gone off, and I realize I need to leave my room. With haste, I do so, getting a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I pass towards the door. I am wearing a white tank top and what appears to be a man’s light blue cotton boxer shorts. The sudden change in temperature as I get up from the warmth of the covers makes my breasts very visible under the top, but I feel like I should be moving, and there is nothing I can do about it now anyway. I go into the hall, also fuzzy peach, and walk, barefoot, on the shaggy carpet. I am by nature a friend of cleanliness, and I feel slightly disgusted by the feel of the fabric against the soles of my feet. There is a corner, and I stay there, leaning on the wall. A door, perhaps the main entrance to the floor, is behi...