Paranormal Dating: Red Pearls And Black Sand by Nisha-Anne D’Souza
The moment Keira and Leta mentioned to me the idea of writing the ideal paranormal date, my heart leapt. Mostly with joy because I’ll take any opportunity to indulge my old love of Greek mythology. The Hades and Persephone myth has always been my favourite so naturally this is where my imagination went first.
Red Pearls And Black Sand— An Alternate Take
When the kids are put to bed, we go walking through your world of black sand and grey skies, along the low stone wall, passing the wandering shades. Our big shaggy black dog pads beside you, his shadow splitting into three on the shifting sands. Your fingers loop around my wrist in that odd almost delicate way, even now after all these years when the shyness grips you again. And I feel the smile tipping my mouth in the dim silver light.
Sometimes you bring the motorcycle out, all glossy black and gleaming white. But it can’t go on the sand so the grains fuse to form paths of dark glass winding through the soft dunes and distant jagged hills. We ride, my arms around your waist, my cheek against your back, watching the big doggie shape thunder beside us. The dark invisible helmets are back home, forgotten, and the wind streams through my hair, cool against the warmth of you. I think about the day, about the children and work and the world away from here.
Eventually you slow down, you always do and I know it’s because you’ve seen a particular shape off to the side. They wander through the endless night, grieving and searching in this eternal purgatory, but you — you make them human. For the few moments you stop to talk and their faces light up because yours does, because you gather these souls to you and I see how the care shines through you. These people who have touched your heart with their words and their music through all the pain and suffering, these people you collect for the time being. I watch and I chat too and I wonder how long they’ll stay. You never keep them past their times. They move on when they’re ready and you hold me a little tighter each night they leave, that old fear touching you once more.
We ride towards the intersecting rivers, the sky glimmering with hidden light, and you turn the bike in that wide graceful arc you love that skitters the sand up, that makes me grin and the dog bark joyfully. Your hair’s all rumpled like the boyish grin on your lovely homely face as you help me get off the bike. And I slide my hand on the leather of your jacket as I turn my face away to take out the bottle of wine from the bag. Your hand over mine, holding wrist to heart. The doggie butts your leg affectionately and I have to laugh. Look at you, all lord of the manor and ruler of the realm.
No wineglasses, I couldn’t find any. So we sit in the lee of the motorcycle under the ragged trees, and drink from the polka dotted tumblers because your daughter will ever have her own way. And we talk about the day and your work and mine, about the people threading their ways through our world.
I’ve never told you how much I like the sound of your voice, the slightly cool detached edge to it, the warm depth to it and the way it goes all dry and sardonic. The way your mouth curls, so very slim and biteable. You’re not a pretty man or a handsome man. But I love to look at you and you never seem to realise except for those brief moments of embarrassment when you’re chained to the bed and can’t protest.
I love to look at the long lines of your body, the smooth delicious contours and the rough lovely places. You let me touch you, you let me do things to you, and that joy is something that never leaves, the gratitude we share. Maybe we cling too close too often, maybe sometimes it scares me because what will I do without you? It terrifies me and I don’t want to be terrified anymore.
But if it means having you and us for now, well maybe I can be brave. I suppose.
Now your fingers flex for a smoke, I see that telling twitch. So while you talk on, I take your hand and put it on my thigh, trapping it beneath mine. You gave that up for me and the guilt will maybe never leave me even though I tell myself it was all your choice, that you are your own man.
Except you’re not.
You’re my man.
I claim you now without shame, without the hesitation and unwillingness of so long ago. And your hand clasps my thigh as you talk on, gesturing the wineglass at the murky skies. You are claimed, joyfully and secure in the knowledge that you are loved. There is some sadness, I know as I lean my cheek against your shoulder, automatically snarking back at you. The sadness at the heart of every love affair, because we are two in a world of millions alone. And if you continue any story long enough —
But you turn your head and grin at me. The light catches your eyes, wild and deep and green. So beautiful I have to kiss you.
This is your world but it’s mine too. Rulers and lovers. There are myths and stories about us, before and after us. And you remind me playfully how it was me who assaulted you, not the other way around.
Who abducted who is a whole other mystery.
A bottle of red wine, a loop of red pearls. And your green eyes crinkling with so much warmth. Silver binds us, our children bind us, and maybe the old griefs and scabbed over wounds don’t hurt us anymore. But when you look at me sometimes in the implacable night, I know you carry my history. Like I carry yours, a soft weight to hold secure and protect from the vast whirling wind.
Next date night I’ll take you up to my world of eternal sunshine. We’ll ride through the green fields and hot breezes, and let the doggie terrorise the butterflies and small animals under the arching blue skies. And we’ll be secretly glad to escape back here.
Nisha-Anne D’Souza has been writing fiction of varying degrees of eroticism for more than fifteen years now. This has somehow resulted in her rabid love of obscure music and Greek mythology colliding to produce Calling Pomegranate, a modern reinterpretation of the Hades and Persephone myth as an epic tale of sex, grief and Tim Buckley references.
Posted on November 6, 2012, in Keira Andrews, Leta Blake and tagged black sand, calling pomegranate, free read, guest blogger, nisha-anne, nisha-anne d'souza, red pearls, red pearls and black sand. Bookmark the permalink. 7 Comments.