South Kensington, London
May, 2000
It occurs to us both at the same time that there is something terribly wrong, for directly above our balcony overlooking Queensgate mews, the sky bleeds. It is as if some lunatic god has driven a nail and pierced the skin of the heavens. Karen and I stare up at the London summer sky, frightened but amused. Hypnotized by wailing sirens of disaster, people scurry out of their nests and point to the sky not sure if they are witnessing the end of the world or some massive publicity gimmick. But a glowing, crimson streak spreads across the afternoon sky like a bucket of red paint tossed into a swift stream. Amidst the noise and confusion that follow, we hear the polished voice of a well-known BBC-2 announcer from a TV directly below us. The report states that the Royal Society vigorously denies rumors of global environmental disaster or terrorist attack.
“What’s going on?” Karen asks. Her voice is even and calm despite the surrounding panic.
I search for something reassuring to tell Karen on her first day in London. “I’ve seen worse,” is the best I come up with.
“No you haven’t,” she says with a smile.
Moments later another river of blood leaks into the sky, forming a trinity with the sun and the first wound.
Distant cathedral bells peal madly, chasing the demons from the sky. Our lunch celebrating her recent divorce suffers from an oppressive spring humidity and lack of attention, and now seems strangely irrelevant. A sanguine radiance reflects across Karen’s face as she stares at the wounded sky. A ginger thought, and with a single motion she swipes food, glasses and dishes off the table and into the mews below. I pull her across the table, and cover her open mouth with mine. She grabs an open bottle of claret and pours it over our faces; our tongues intermingle over the wine and saliva. Karen licks my face hungrily. She pulls my shirt off, licking my chest and down towards my belly.
She whispers a command into my flesh. I pull her light chiffon dress over her head and throw it into the street. I tear off the rest of my clothes, driven by a burning sensation in each palm and across my forehead. Karen pulls me toward her onto the vacant table.
“Don’t look at it,” she tells me as she takes me in her hand and guides me slowly, firmly into her. Her fingers rake my back; I feel a trickle of moisture that drips down my side onto the table forming small red pools. Thrusting into each other, I look at her hands—each is blighted with a gaping wound that passes through her palm, and as we approach climax I feel wounds open in my own hands. The pain shoots up my arms and across my back, her nails dig deeper, leaving a furrow that quickly fills with fresh blood.
She pulls me deeper inside her, circles her tongue around my ear, sweeps bloodied arches on my back, pants feverishly, “I’m cumming…”
We explode into each other; blood, wine, and sex mingle as the sky suddenly explodes and showers of red confetti rain down upon us like living fireworks.
Afterwards, we rest in each others arms and watch the sun disappear behind frightened households. The patches of blood overhead gradually dissolve into the evening sky, leaving not a trace behind. Karen whispers something into my ear that I don’t understand, “It’s gone, but not over.”
Copyright © 2010 Donald W. Bacon
revised 09-May-2010
|