Liquid Dreams: Desire in a public place

Sometimes, when handled in a particular way, an otherwise innocent object can make the hackles dance off the neck in frantic unison.  And that is just the beginning, as hormone reservoirs suddenly break their banks and drown all reason, cascading and smashing their way into the city of the imagination.
 
It is but a moment of frozen discomposure, yet time loiters wantonly, savoring the scene.  What is being said in conversation by the observer unaccountably glides into an elongated vowel, or fill word, or a brief embattled silence, as the speaker vainly tries to regain the previous train of thought.

The face may be a poker mask, but the eyes, or rather their dilating darkness, are nocturnal windows into the chaos within.  Fortunately they are small, avertable and come with blinds, so only the most observant will notice.

Arousal grabs the victim by desire’s scruff until it aches, bulges, froths and dissolves into warm slippery puddles.  Yet businesslike clothing veneers the public space with a look that belies the damp and movement underneath.

To the casual observer, the bending of a garden bamboo stake might be just as much testing for brittleness as for sensuous flexibility.  For someone working to repair shrubbery in a front garden on a sunny afternoon, it is hardly incongruous.  The adjacent behavior on the street is very much as it was before.  Social editing smooths out the missed beat in the reality continuum.

And yet there are unaccountable whispers on the tape; ghosts that walk back, that expose themselves as they disappear off the side of the screen, to the beat of a swishing sound, the staccato report on naked flesh and stifled moans.

The picture liquefies at the edges and bursts into flame, leaving the streetscape intact, but the gardener and passing people have gone.  The sun dulls with the passing of a cloud and yes, the broken shrub is staked as it should be.