THE SANTA FE B&B
alexandra isacson
Hearing soft chimes, she walked over to a lace-draped window. In the waning snow flurried light, she could see a shimmering rose window in the church across the narrow street. Headlights from cars driving over a hill flashed into their Victorian suite. He threw some kindling in the fireplace and turned on a light by their bed. From the window, she watched him take off his shirt. She pulled down the shade and pulled a drape shut. She could smell spice. He was behind her, lightly kissing the back of her neck, touching her beneath her nude silk dress. He pulled on the shade, and it spun back up.
“No one knows us here,” he said.
“There’s a gothic church across the street,” she said. “Inspired by some dabbling Rosicrucian saint.”
“Come on, Crystal,” he said, “We’re alone here.”
Al softly recited poetry, and he touched with his fingertips. She closed her eyes, and felt Vincent touching her. Vincent had been all over her the last time she wore this dress. He had undressed her for his charcoal sketch, and she had not washed it since. She kept the dress tucked away, hermetically sealed in her heart, him tightly woven in the memory.
Her dress floated to the floor. At first, she covered herself with her arms. She was incense burning. She left the skin of her dress on the floor.
Alexandra Isacson
aaisacson@gmail.com
Fish Museum
Charles D'Ambriosio