Bettina comes in through the window, her body crumpling briefly into a fetal bundle as she makes her passage through the portal. Alighting on the sill, Bettina rests on her haunches, surveying the space before her. There she finds paint and a fan and an electric guitar. First, she stands before the fan, basking in the artificial breeze. Immersed in the fantasy of a steady wind, she reaches for the paint. She slathers sky blue on her eyelids. Looking a bit gaunt under the influence of the bright blue, she reaches for the cherry red and traces over her lips again and again until the surface of her painted lips begins to protrude, millimeters thick. Her lips are tacky and heavy with paint. Her arm, slender and serpentine, stretches for the electric guitar. She spreads her legs and bends her knees, sinking into a powerful, stabilizing squat. She holds the guitar against her and as it slips down her thigh the guitar pulls her lower. She is curled protectively over the thing and with a blissful, crooked smile Bettina plucks out a tinkling melody. The music stays close to her body and dissipates before it can reach the opposite end of the room. In spite of their faintness, Bettina continues her strokes.
No comments:
Post a Comment