thomas m wilson

No white nor red was ever seen, so am’rous as this lovely green.

January 8th, 2008

I wrote the following short story while I was musing on the erotic in nature late last year. 

In the stone heart of an old city an elegant restaurant goes about its nightly buisiness. A couple are sitting down for dinner at a starched linen table cloth. Outside the windows of the sparesly adorned interior the street is mostly dark, apart from the lights of intermittently passing cars. The entree and the main course pass, and the candle light flickers forgivingly over the faces of the two lovers. That slice of papaya now on the woman’s perfectly white desert plate encases small, dark life forces. Weeks ago in a humid African orchard those glistening black ovaries were fertilzed by pollen. Now the woman’s tongue slides up against the sweet body of tropical nights. Her nourishment carries the sperm of aching trees. But in the dimness of the evening the woman does not remember.

The abiding taste of papaya is good. Ahh, yes, good. Her eyes meet those of the man across the table. For a moment their pupils dilate in collusion. The woman pauses, feeling a seed on her tongue. She moves it over her tongue and plays with it on her lips. While bringing the sweetness of promise across their tongues the lovers are intent on the beauty of dark eyes across the table. They smile to each other. Outside the old city walls a breeze glances through leaves in a grove of trees.

It is a few days later, in the country. A small forest of trees borders an enclosed space of lawn. The young woman walks, alone, into the middle of the sheltered scene. Civilization fits tightly. She undoes its clutching grasp, and lets it fall softly from her body. She lies down on a rug, there in the middle of the lawn. Leaning low she feels the warmth of the sun on her brown, now naked skin. The roughness of the grass through the rug under her thighs. She savours the sensation of the warm air caressing her free breasts. Time passes. A bird calls out. Green shadows shift and fall languidly over the grass.

Looking sideways into the trees the woman notices a seed case hanging from a bough. What is this shape? Slowly, she gets to her feet and walks over to the hanging seed case. The outer skin has already started to come off, making the object look naked, even brazen. She peels the casing further back and slips her whole hand around the large, heavy seeds within. She hefts their uneven texture, sensing a dense, weighted content.

The roundness of promise lies there in her hand. Her eyes see clearly in the day’s brilliant sunlight. Within an arch of wood seeds are gestating the future. All the trees seem to lean in from the edge of the garden around her. Stroking the pendant ovals with her fingers, she looks, and remembers all the love in the world.