It’s two dark thirty. It’s such an ungodly hour that even the devil makes a scary entry then retreats to his darksome quarters.
She is lost to a world of fantasy and rainbows and unicorns and sunflowers that giggle.
He no longer has a tail, the devil. It got burnt in the echelons of hell!
He, not the devil, should be asleep but he is not.
A donkey brays. Somewhere, a dog barks furiously at a swaying shadow.
Other shadows cast by the candle light set on the bedside table dance on the pale green wall. He places two fingers on her voluptuous body and imagines an abridged version of himself walking gingerly on this body that makes his blood thirsty.
Damn, at this rate he will need a map to go round her.
A silky lace. A mountain. He trips on the lace and comes tumbling down and down and down….
She slaps his hand and pulls the blanket over her body. Such petulance.
A retrieved hand.
Blood swirls in an unquenched rage.
The shadows dance more vigorously on the wall.