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NYMPHS
© Kenny Klein
dear diary:
It's Wednesday afternoon, three
o'clock, and I am here in the cafe, same seat, same life. Ah me...
Glance at the mirror. Same cat's eye glasses. Same bob haircut.
Maybe I could do something with my hair other than put these little
plastic barrettes in it. dye it fuscia? pink? too rockabilly mama?
today i wore the a-line skirt
and poodle sweater. i think i'm fetching. no one else seems to share
my opinion. sigh. its been six months since loser boy left me, and
i guess i'm just missing that being kissed in the morning with bad
breath thing. those little cuddles at night. having someone to watch
jenny jones with. ah well, its not like loser boy was any good at
those things. my mother always said there's other fish in the sea,
but i seem to live in a little puddle. a couple of other girl fish
and then the occasional loser barracuda that swims by and flounders
or gets carried away in a rain storm, looking for some other just
a little too chubby just a little too nerdy fish. how will this
romance novel end? probably with the heroinne searching for another
reason to wake up one more morning.
look at that couple there.
yuppies, happy with the world. he must love her dearly. he just
bought her a croissant. ah, if only some man did that for me....
halley, dear, you are pathetic. i should be dreaming of diamond
rings, and all i want out of life is a man with wide pants and tattoos
who will buy me a croissant.
i think i'll go home and dye
my hair. better call in to work first. fish face may complain that
i'm hard to reach. it's not like i have a cell phone and a pager.....
* * *
The nymphs sat at Inness, naked
and glistening white in the sun that shines from Olympus' heavens.
Their skin was silk soft, kitten playful. Their touch might bring
unimaginable joy, sensations of pleasure only hinted at in dreams
one half remembers in fleeting dawn. Eyes bright with wonder, laughter
like rustling leaves, five nymphs rested from the sport of a long,
voluptuous afternoon.
When Persephone arrived, damp
with dew from far journeys, the five were eager to hear news, tales,
gossip. Persephone wore a long tunic, white, set with pearls at
the neck and shoulders, and tucked into her purple belt so that
her deft, freckled legs peeked out and hinted at subtle pleasures
beneath the garment's folds. Her face was bright with smiling, her
eyes a galaxy of stars. She took long hours to disrobe, to lower
herself into the flowing stream, to stretch her long toes and sigh
as the waters ran cold and frothing over her pale skin. Its babblings
prickled at the goose flesh that rose from her belly and breasts.
The long day was growing azure
evening as she took her seat beside the five. They begged, plead
for a story, a song, a tale of enchantment. And Persephone glanced
coyly about the knot of plump, languid nymphs, thinking delicious
thoughts.
"let us speak of mortals,"
Persephone said at length.
"Oh, mortals," said one nymph,
a cherry-haired vixen with deep green eyes like emeralds. "Shall
we weave mortal mens' lives into shapes and shadow?"
"Not mortal men," said Persephone,
half sighing. "Mortal women."
There was giggling. "Poor creatures,"
said the thin, supple sloe eyed nymph. Her black hair was short,
curly, the hair of a boy, but her hips spoke the pleasures of long,
deep gyration against the pressure of thrust. "Mortal women are
so helpless, so sweet. Can we play with one?"
"What if," said Persephone,
and she turned upon her back, her legs arched and crossed, her toes
pointed and tracing little circles around the outline of the moon's
orb in distant sky, "what if a mortal woman looked at the moon,
and saw her true love reflected there? What would she do? seek him?
wait for him to come to her? Or..."
"Or?" the green haired nymph
asked. The youngest of the five, she could always get away with
saying the obvious, repeating the intriguing, without more consequence
than a smile or a light, gentle kiss from her elders. And she welcomed
those consequences.
"Or, would she create that moon
face in any man she saw, her eyes so filled with the flavor of him
that his physical face mattered not to her?"
The five thought for a moment,
dwelling on their mistress' idyll. What do mortals really think,
really do? Do they have thoughts, premises? Do they feel love, hate,
loneliness, like the Immortals do? The silver haired nymph laughed.
"This is silly talk, my Mistress,"
she said. The oldest nymph, she spoke with an authority almost equal
to that of the Gods. She could dimly remember the making of mountains,
and the play of Titans. Her heather purple eyes sparkled as she
spoke, but beneath them welled dark boding, silence that hung like
clouds some days.
"Is it?" Persephone grinned.
"Is it?"
* * *
dear diary:
i had the strangest experience
today. i left the cafe at five, ready to tackle that layout that
needs to be utterly brilliant, as if i had any idea what big butt
wants me to do with it! well, she seems to feel no one can lay ‘em
out like i do. so, like they say, it aint what you do its the way
that you do it... so i left the cafe, a little jittery from mocha
consumption, and the moon had risen, full and round like a face.
a man's face. see that's what i saw. not like the man in the moon.
i glanced at the moon and saw this guy. he had a little goatee beard
(oh i love those) and i guess no hair on top, since it was the moon
and the moon is sort of bald. and green eyes (i'm pretty sure there's
no green eyes in the moon) and the saddest face you ever saw.
it was just for a second, dear
diary. but i still see it in my mind's eye. i suppose my mind doesn't
have an eye, but it had better have something to get that layout
done!
i will give that man a name.
hmmm.... kelly. yea, kelly. i like that name. rugged, but also androgynous.
girls can be kelly too, though they'd probably spell it kelli. or
kellie. or caghlie if they were little ren faire dweebs. haighlee.
hmmm. maybe i should start doing that. just kidding, dear diary.
* * * *
"Mortals are not dreamers,"
the silver haired nymph said matter-of-factly. "They simply don't
have the capacity for it. They work, they live, they love a tiny
bit, though their love is fleeting. When they think they are sad,
they cry, though sometimes they cry for no reason at all. What can
we really know of mortals, when they hardly know themselves? Now
cats. Cats are subtle."
As Silver Hair spoke, little
Green Hair stroked her thigh and kissed her long, sensate calves.
Silver paused for a moment, feeling the deep passion in the tiny
touch of green hair's tongue. Fauns might be virile, she pondered,
but who could kiss toe and thigh like a nymph? And such a coy, subtle
nymph as Green Hair? Silver hair let her concentration dissipate,
gave herself to the feel of tiny tongue on soft skin. the sky turned
red for a fleeting second, her moan sent a shiver across the curve
of the hills.
"Mortals love as we love," Persephone
said at last. "Perhaps not as enduringly, but there are even exceptions
to that. Sappho."
"Sappho was a fluke," Blond
Hair said, laughing. "I loved her once. She thought I was mortal."
"And...?" the littlest asked.
"And I thought she was divine!"
the blond smiled. "I took the form of a girl of twelve. I acted
shy, scared. I stayed on after Sappho's tutorship was finished for
the day. She called me a lost girl. She said I was beautiful. She
stroked my arms, held my eye. When we kissed, I could not remember
any greater pleasure."
The other four sighed with the
rippling passion of this memory. Sappho, whose poetry was even spoken
on Olympus. Could Mortals really feel the excruciating sweetness
Sappho wrote of?
"Perhaps I am wrong," Silver
Hair said. "Perhaps there is the rare mortal who feels real love,
real pleasure."
"And with it, true pain," Persephone
idylled. "Aching with every cell when she is unloved, uncared for.
When there is no relief for the longing in her mortal heart."
"Listen to us, talking of mortals
like this," said Silver Hair. "Still, my Mistress, your notions
intrigue me." She pushed the little one away for a moment, collecting
her brooding thoughts.
* * *
dear diary:
strange, i dreamed about kelly
last night. am i weird? psycho? pathetic? i'm even talking about
this guy like he exists. if he does exist, he's probably in love
with some skinny girl.
what are the things my kelly
would do, or think? i think he swing dances. he likes to get very
well dressed to go out. zoot suits, fedora hats, big chains and
wing tips are among his many fashion statements. he likes cherry
poppin daddies and the stray cats, but he knows the old tunes. and
i'm not just talking glenn miller. he knows billie holiday and cab
calloway. he even knows bix biderbeck and red nichols.
he has a down to earth side.
he's a quiet guy, he thinks deep thoughts. maybe he's a writer,
or a recording engineer. oooh, dear diary, or a private investigator.
no, maybe not. that's kind of dangerous. how about a museum curator.
he investigates fossils and relics, searches for their meaning and
their history all day, then he's a wild man by night. a zoot suit
daddy. no one at the museum knows his secret life. they think of
him as that handsome, quiet guy.
who would i tell these thoughts
to, dear diary, but you? i'm afraid to tell them to myself! poor,
pathetic halley. fart boy left her, and now she's seeing men in
the moon. what would fish face say? skinny girls are so annoying....
and where did she learn to dress? well, she is a great design artist.
what she lacks in personal style, she makes up for in ability. what
would kelly think of her? would he and i sit around and talk about
the people i work with at the magazine, or the people he works with
at the museum? would we drink too much coffee, read d. h. lawrence
to each other, play chess and backgammon? sigh..... i like this
red in my hair. very bright. maybe i need a new dress to go with
it. i'll stop at arizona trading company on the way home. shopping
is the remedy for so many ills. almost as panacaeic as chocolate.
* * * *
"Perhaps I am wrong," said Silver
Hair. Moonlight shown upon her eyes now, echoing the silky glow
of the soft hair woven on head and pubis. Her legs dangled from
her rocky perch, tracing lines in the sand. "Perhaps humans dream
too much. They are creatures of dreams. They never know their true
selves, because their dreams cloud their eyes."
"You are so serious, my darling,"
said the little one. "Mayn't we hear more of Sappho's love?" She
reached out her hand, tentatively, and touched Silver Hair's soft,
moon drenched thigh. There was no resistance. Silver Hair leaned
back, arching her back in the shape of foothills, letting one leg
drop back from its rock perch and trail the sandy floor. The other
made a gate over which the moon shone. Her tongue flicked at her
lips, leaving the trace of dew and salty ocean, like tears.
* * * *
Music blared over the huge P.A.
system, a tune by Cherry Poppin Daddies, about a philandering train
passenger. The place was jumping. Couples shook it on the way-too-tiny
dance floor, wailin' and jivin'. Sean asked a red head to dance,
a pretty girl with a fine, ample figure and the face of a Goddess.
"I've never danced here before,"
Sean said to the red head. "I'm from Atlanta. Pretty good swing
scene there."
"Uh huh," the red head nodded.
She was gorgeous, Sean thought. Hair in a little Bettie Page bob.
Thick legs and bust, shown off in an A-line skirt and a little black
cashmere sweater. And could she dance! She'd danced with some swing
boy like the devil! He'd flipped her, and she wore only little cotton
panties under that black skirt. Shameless, loving the adoration,
she'd lifted herself to be flipped again.
Now she stood distracted, half
heatedly talking. They'd danced that one dance. Sean had done some
good moves. But she didn't seem interested in dancing with him again.
Or anything else.
"Maybe we'll dance again later?"
Sean suggested.
"My regular dance partner is
probably waiting for me," she smiled. And away she walked, a little
wiggle in her hips. Want fries with that shake? Sean thought.
Ah, Jump, Jive and Wail was
starting. Damn not knowing anyone here. I wanna dance to this.
He noticed her out of the corner
of his eye. Then he did a double take. Big busted and big legged,
just the way he liked ‘em. Too many skinny girls in Atlanta for
Sean's taste. She dressed well. Black dress, black and white saddle
shoes, and a little white scarf at her neck. And those cat's eye
glasses. He loved that dorky girl look. Raver hair bob, with a little
Hello-Kitty barrette. That drove Sean nuts, too.
He took her in in an instant.
She was adorable. I wonder if she feels as beautiful as I find her?
he thought.
He approached her. She seemed
to have a funny expression when she saw him. Could she have gasped
a little? He asked her to dance. They started simple, a little jitterbug
step. He spun her a couple of times. Nice form.
"You been dancing long?" he
asked her.
"Taking the lessons here, for
about three weeks," she replied, a little shyly.
"Really? You're good for three
weeks! You take your turns well. Wanna try something a little harder?"
"Okay," she said.
"Ever do a half pretzel?"
She was graceful. I come to
Lawrence, Kansas, Sean thought, and meet the woman of my dreams.
Great. What do I do now? Move here from Atlanta and hope to find
a job? The song ended, and he asked if she wanted a drink.
"Okay." she still seemed shy,
hesitant. They walked to the bar, squeezing through the throng of
hipsters that frequented this place, the Bottleneck Bar. Swing night
on Sundays brought a big crowd here.
"I haven't seen you here before,"
she said.
"I'm visiting from Atlanta,"
he told her. "Just here for a week."
"Oh?" she said. "What
do you do in Atlanta?"
"I'm a curator at the High Museum
of Art. Ever been there?"
She was silent for a moment.
"No," she said.
"Well you should come down.
It's warm there now. Not like here in Kansas." He smiled. "What's
your name?"
"Halley."
"Sean," he told her. "Hey,
here's my card. Look me up if you come south."
She pocketed the card without
looking. Sean thought she seemed disappointed.
"Dance again?" he asked her.
"Sure." She said it with resignation.
They danced for quite a while,
a good hour. She learned quickly, and he taught well. Basket, half
pretzel, Charleston, sweetheart turns.
She let him kiss her good night
at the end of the evening. He returned to his room at the Arrowhead
Motel, feeling sad that the girl of his dreams was gone. More loneliness,
more thinking that if only he could meet a girl like that who seemed
to care for him, who responded. Ah well, Sean thought. It will happen.
* * * *
dear diary:
i thought this was it. but alas.
went to the bottleneck. swing night. lots of the tragically hip.
then he walked over. great looking, zoot suit, long chain. goatee
beard, shaved head. yea, i decided, kelly is real. and he's a museum
curator. in atlanta. and boy can he kiss.
but no. this guy's name is
sean. close, but no cigar. i never get the cigar. he was leaving
for atlanta this morning.
i cried all night. its dawn.
i think i'll eat some chocolate. i'm an idiot. kelly. yea, right.
i hear its comfy in those rubber rooms. why didn't i sleep with
this guy? because of his name? halley, you moron.
* * * *
Persephone trailed her hand
in the stream's gushing waters. Circlets of light appeared where
her hand moved, and fish like stars swam to meet the current. Dawn
was just filling the eastern sky with pink tones. A deep bright
blue, like eyes, filled the western sky.
Nestled in the crook of Persephone's
leg was the blond haired nymph. Her breast lay softly against the
Goddess' thigh. Her sleepy chin formed a tiny valley in the crevice
where Persephone's leg met supple torso. A line of pink glowing
light traced the form of breast, chin, hair, leg and round cheek.
The line of light made the shape, perhaps, of cats eye glasses.
Persephone languished in the
feel of the nymph's skin, her wisps of blond hair, her warmth. There
is no joy, Persephone mused, that can compare to the fulfillment
of touch met with loving touch. All of life is completed by this.
All of nature replicates this, from the amoeba who births itself
and creates its own twin, to the cat that sleeps curled against
her sisters in the litter. Even humans, considered Persephone----especially
humans, perhaps, of all creation----are completed, fulfilled, by
loving touch. Their dreams are clouded, yes, by the fear that they
will not be loved, by the desire to prove their love, by the temptation
to search for a more complete love. Yet their seeking and yearning
is ever in vain until they realize the mystery. That they never
allow themselves to see what is right before them. That the Goddess'
touch they seek has been with them from the beginning. It is what
they will attain at the end of their desire.
Persephone dreamt.
* * * *
dear diary:
my company is moving me to georgia,
the creeps. starting up an atlanta edition of the magazine. they
need me there, they say. idiots. they're giving my job to fish face,
and putting me in some stupid layout studio where i can quietly
work away my boring little days. oh, well, they are paying me more.
a lot more. and atlanta is warm, i hear.
yea, i heard that from that
guy. the curator. the dish. did i take his card? i think i put it
in my little purse. its been a month. i haven't worn that purse
since. wait a moment, dear diary, while i get it. knowing someone
in atlanta might be nice. at least that guy is one great dancer.
and cute. and a great kisser. and everything i could want if i wasn't
weird and psycho and convinced that some guy named kelly will come
into my life. as if. what kinda jerk am i, anyway?
i'll get that purse.
o my god, do you believe in
miracles, dear diary? i put his card away without looking. god,
i was so disappointed that his name was sean. he was perfect in
every other way. but sean, from atlanta. got the purse out. read
the card.
Sean Patrick Kelly.
Assistant Curator, High Museum,
Atlanta, Georgia.
i leave for atlanta next week.
atlanta and love. i am a happy girl. what does one wear to an art
museum?
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