Romance In A Column

chapter fifteen,

As a person who sees the imagery behind words, Eryn Sallow has fallen victim to the indescribable frustration of being at utter loss of these. Her mind hollow of all the coherent dots of ink printed into paper she's once read, in its stead, there lay a myriad of scenes from the perspective of a camera viewfinder.

In and out of focus dances an image of intertwined hands, a contrast of skins bathed in the warmth of a candle's light. Hues of ablaze orange prune the shadows clinging to the edges of all and anything inside the vast room.

With blurry edges plays a recording of soft palms against the arc of Eryn's back, the slope of her breasts, the expanse of her thighs, tentative in the exploration of the bare curves of her body–pale skin, silvery, due to the moonlight filtering through the slightly drawn back curtains besides Wren's king sized bed.  

And as she further nuzzles her head to Wren's bicep, feeling the sculpture bone of his cheek against the lines of her neck, the low intakes and exhales trailing across the stroke of her jaw, and his pulse steady against her shoulder blades like the patter of the raindrops who, then, scurry down the crystal pane from which Eryn gazes–distorting the New York, alight skyline–she can't help but wish she was an artist.

To wish she'd see reality as bottled shades of subjectiveness. Eryn wonders how she'd paint the midnight blue of Wren's bedsheets to illustrate the feel of the satin against her naked flesh. If she'd dot it's expanse with dim stars and the fumes of the city puffed into the night sky. Eryn might paint silvers of their bare bodies with reds and yellows and the in betweens of these, as the illumination of the restaurant had done to Wren's handsome features, rather than the pale tones which drowns them at the current time.

Eryn briefly thinks she wouldn't be able to do the scenery justice. But at the given moment, with words, she couldn't either.

It'd be futile to try and recreate the descents and tilts of his strong shoulders; his mischievous fingers who now cup her waist and; articulate lips, with a brush and easel. Perhaps the tips of her hands would prove more accurate in conveying their beauty, for they have sailed across these. They could try to mimic the path with crumbs of chalk in their tabs, however the surface they'll run through wouldn't be heated and laced with a crisp and citrus scent.

Eryn's neck is barely caressed by the flutter of Wren's lashes, hesitantly, she shifts to face him.

"Hi," she says in a small voice and, at the remembrance of her prior devil may care attitude, Eryn has the urge to bury herself into the pillow.

She wishes she could say alcohol had gotten the best, or rather boldest of her, however if there anything Eryn was, it is completely conscious of her every word and act.

Eryn could say it is Melina who is to blame and the unadulterated confidence she'd infused into Eryn in their earlier chat where she'd accompanied her youngest sister through drawers of makeup and heaps of bared hampers atop of every available surface.

Eryn remembers murmuring under her breath while applying a coat of mascara the misguided questions bread from the anxiety her college friends had fed her. Would he be put off from a relationship if she were to have sex with him on the first date? What would it say about her? Would he think she is as forward with other guys then, as well?

A silence had overtaken the line then, such to a point Eryn had placed down the bit of makeup and glanced at the screen to find Melina glancing at the rim of her glass with pursed lips, tracing the moist edge with her thumb. But due to the dinosaur shape nugget held between a set of her fingers, much as if it were a cigarette, Eryn smiled despite the nerves and the serious look her sister donned.