Cherries in Bed
She places a ripe, red cherry next to her cherry-colored lips and makes a wish. Tonight she will eat them one at a time, or perhaps in clumps. She'll make ex post facto wishes until dawn, give in to proxy pleasures as if she were a virgin on her first
date. Since her sweet thing left her eleven weeks ago, she plays mental movies of her insatiable kisses that will never mug another man. She feasts on their first few weeks in bed, plays both parts in their uninhibited sessions of sexual decadence. He
swore they'd be together until the cosmos collapsed under the weight of their passion. He said he'd do anything for her. He'd hinted at hard love, guaranteed they'd have children as beautiful as blue-blooded aristocrats, the kind found in Goya's
Portrait of the Family of Charles IV. He gave her gifts, promised her the moon like Hollywood actors in old thirties and forties movies. Intuition told her his words were lies, that his shtick was all a facade. After awhile, he began nitpicking,
carping, finding fault in her behavior, criticizing her over the little things that bothered him. At first he claimed he loved cherries. But later he grew to detest them. In truth, he despised her for eating cherries in bed. On top of that, he hated
her perfume, her soap, her nail polish, her lipstick, her mouthwash, each smelling like cherries. She could do nothing right. Flaws flowed from her like red hot lava. He sniped, snipped, and demeaned her until she sought refuge alone in the bed they
swore would launch them toward the next level of love. From the dark depths of her dream world, she plucks the ripest cherry to celebrate the loss of her love, a gesture so pure that if he were to come back tomorrow, he'd come back as a woman.
"Cherries in Bed" artwork by Marcus Stanley Bausch, Jr.
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