#Flashfiction: Emerald Cut
Black and white.
“This will make it better, baby.”
A cool swipe, a sharp prick.
Colors erupt from my eyes. I blow rainbow kisses from between my lips that skate across the palms of my six or eight . . . or ten hands.
Peacock feathers for hair.
A kaleidoscope dances all around me, prisms of light refracting from his emerald cut eyes.
My ten hands caress his baby-smooth cheeks, stroke his pouty lips.
Falling, falling, away from him.
Gossamer ribbons of every hue, silk and smoke, slip through my grappling fingers . . . taking my emeralds away.
“Shh . . . ride it, baby.”
Murk swallows the rainbows, and I float on soft undulating waves of well-being, enrobed in womb-like bliss. I slip into darkness . . .
Heaviness . . . aching . . . wanting . . .
My eyes open to the stale-smelling room with the dirty mattress.
The guy slumped against the wall is all wrong.
Dark skin, hair. Lids flutter open . . . no emeralds.
“I need to go again.”
“You’ve had enough, sweetheart.”
Not yet. Not yet.