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Blue Hands

    11:08 am:  Mimi sets out from the office to the Peppycenter, the cute nickname she’s invented for her article. Six block stroll, pleasant. She’s quite fetching in a new black suede jumper and, as she catches a glimpse of herself in a store window, notes that it pleases her. She reminds herself to get a receipt for the blueberries, $3/box. Maybe later she’ll bump into friends and pump them for witticisms for the article over a couple of caps at Dean & Deluca, also deductible. She buys her blueberries a readies her Pearlcorder to record Mr. Kim’s pearls of wisdom. Being Korean, Kim is reticent on the issue and its larger ramifications. “Berry good for business, ha-ha!” is about all Kim can bring to the party. Mimi calculates the probability that this pun could possibly be intentional. She lights up a Camel Light, figures her next move. Killing a few minutes in front of the store, she notices all the blueberry buyers inevitably head downtown. ‘Well, D & D’s that way anyway…’ and she motors on. She spies a little cluster on the sidewalk ahead, thinks it to be a three card monte situation in progress and almost crosses Broadway. Almost. At the last second she changes her mind without knowing why. Nearing the cluster, Mimi senses the vibe as utterly     un-monte and draws closer. Gold glints suddenly blind her. Habib’s sporting a lamé turban and adroitly accepts the morning’s donations. Lane now rests on an old Persian rug and wears a wreath of small white wildflowers from upstate. Those who linger converse happily; no one’s a stranger this morning. Then Mimi sees Lane. 

‘Hello, Traveler.’ 


    Somewhere a street performer gently strums an acoustic guitar, a baby cries a wise man dies. Mimi is overcome by a sudden lightness, cholesterol dissolves in her arteries, nicotine evaporates from her lungs like perfume, worry lines leave the corners of her pretty mouth and fly off her face, becoming tiny benign mosquitoes. She has never seen a man with more beautiful eyes. Lane smiles at her and Mimi instantly hallucinates. The world around them melts away. The two innocents stand close together in a field of small white wildflowers. Lane drops to his knees before his goddess. Her ripe breasts spring forth from her diaphanous muslin peasant blouse and squirt twin white arcs of warm sweet milk into Lane’s smiling mouth. Nourishing, nutrient-packed, life sustaining woman’s milk. Lane’s teeth gleam, his hair is long and lustrous, his skin is as burnished copper over his beefy pecs and ripped abs. He stands now, letting the milk cascade in twin rivulets down his chest. He reaches into a leather pouch at his waist and reveals a handful of fresh blueberries. Mimi giggles mischievously in anticipation. Tenderly he begins to crush the berries against her cheek and neck. Mimi takes his hand in hers and brings it to her mouth. Looking into his eyes, she licks the blue pulp from his wrist. Lane lowers his own mouth onto her freckled shoulder and nibbles the fruit there, working his way down to devour the juicy clumps gathered in the shallow inlet at her collarbone. The sounds of slurping and their own breathing is all they hear.

John Owen lives in Brooklyn, NY.

Posted at 1am on 03/08/2005 | comments are closed Filed Under: Fiction

"The sleep of reason
brings forth monsters."

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