A golden streak of afternoon sunlight seeped through the glass walls and heavy drapes, and traced the figure lying serenely on the bed. It caressed the light brown hair, kissed the short curly brown lashes, traced the high tilted nose, and lined the the shape of his mouth. I watched him sleep, taking in the suntanned skin of his naked body, and his slow even breathing almost bothered the silence of the cold room. I lightly touched his shoulder and he stirred; his eyes opening, the green-gray color instantly sparkled in the light of the afternoon sun. The thin lips curled into a smile, stifling a yawn. His arms reached for my half-naked body, pulled me towards him and kissed my mouth. Briefly I returned the kiss. He held me tighter and began to caress and undress; I backed up and turned my attention to Jeffrey Archer’s The Prodigal Daughter, feigning disinterest. But he was insistent; he grabbed the book and threw it down the carpet floor, almost ripping the cover. Then he held me firmly and kissed me again, this time more passionately. In a moment, I was under his spell again; his lips on mine, his body dominating my body. I felt I was drowning again and again. I felt as if the seawater was closing in on me. I half-opened my eyes and saw the red afternoon sun almost halfway down the sea; then as the rigidity of his body penetrated my own, I shut my eyes and let myself drown in his love.
This was the man who could don different personalities, depending on the time of the day, the topic of conversation, the scenery of the place, or the mood of the person with him.
c.v.summerfield, manila, 1984
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