Nobody Shall Sleep
By T. Dem
I’m lying down on the bed. Naked. Carefree. One hand thrown carelessly behind my head propping me up. The other playing with my belly button or any small indent on my skin within a comfortable radius. I don’t even notice the neuroticism. In this corner of the world, in this cove of the Montenegrin coastline, the sunsets is out of this world. Like it doesn’t belong to the world.
Instead, I’m watching the white, translucent drapes flutter in the wind coming through my open balcony door. Mesmerized by the light of the setting sun. I’m relaxed. Carefree. Bored a little. I remember the small table and two chairs in the corner pushed together. But there is only me here. I’m the only one that came. In a car. By my own hand. I smile to myself.
Eyes close. Fingers rub my face. Slowly over my eyebrows, down my neck, past my shoulders, and bare breasts and to my breathing belly. I miss other hands on my body. Another woman’s hands on my body. Touching. Pushing. Her smell. Softness. Warmth.
I stand up. Face myself in the mirror. 37. Shoulder length hair. Brown. Eyes too. 178 cm tall. Large breasts. Small waist. Round hips. Decent legs. Mostly flat belly. Nice looking. But they don’t see me. I’m an invisible in our world. The curse of blending.
My hands cup my breasts. Squeeze. I feel so much want. Down my belly. Over my shaved pussy. Inside my lips and over my clit. I press a little. But it’s not satisfying. I take a deep breath and brush my hair back. Dress. Long white pants and a print tee. Hair still wet, I head out.
Down the stairs of my hotel. Down the hill. Past the casino. To the waterfront littered with restaurants where groups of people sit. Talking. Eating. Smiling. I stroll. The feel of my white pants soft against my skin. My shoulders tender from the afternoon sun. Soft Balkan music filling the air with the sound of bagpipe and violins. The moon glistens on the water. The boats, medium and small, sway softly, tied to some anchor that can’t be seen in the black waters. I scan the scene. Aim for a table near the corner. Perfect.
I cast my eyes. Everyone smokes here. Like in a movie. They dress well too. Especially the women. I lean back in my chair. Finger the menu. I know this restaurant has English translations. Grilled octopus. White wine. I tell my waitress who has brought me some fresh bread and a mix of olive oil and vinegar. Napkin on lap, I break bread and dip and taste. Lean back in my chair. Feel the softness of the bread in my mouth. The silky oil. Tart vinegar. Refocus my eyes. Two couples ahead of me. Well dressed. Smoking. Smiling. Joking. Finishing dinne
Richard Edwards has a BFA in Creative Writing and Journalism from Bowling Green State University and an M.S. in Education from the University of Akron. Managing editor of Drunk Duck, poetry editor for Prairie Margins, reporter for Miscellany, Akron Journal, Lorain Journal, and The BG News. He has also worked as a professional writer and editor in the medical publishing industry for several years. For the last 15 years Richard has also taught literature and writing at the secondary and post-secondary levels. He works much of the time with at-risk students.