Olfactories (End)

These walls do not a prison make. These bars inhibit not. I bide in my room which is not a cell, so full of warmth now that I radiate. I could be a space heater, a hot brick against your back. The fibrous core of me is now transformed, soft-sweetened, ready to join with you. Waiting for you, but not much longer… soon …

Hank to Polly seemed substantial, solid. He had a large-featured face, long arms, big hands. His hair was thick and silvery; his smooth-shaven chin was prominent. She herself was 5’9″ and often 180. She had a strange light gait, almost mincing, which seemed peculiar on such a big woman, but Hank found her adorable. Across that room their pheromones performed a dance, or maybe it was the jasmine and musk, or more than those a stir of memories and expectations, but Hank and Polly saw, liked, and approached each other.

They tried to talk but it was loud among all the people. They had to stand with their faces close to one another, intensely aware of proximity. Each marveled about how strange it seemed to speak with one’s face that near, how intimate, how powerful, how long it had been. Polly wanted to look in Hank’s eyes but found herself fascinated with the movement of his mouth as he talked. Hank couldn’t stop gazing at the spot where Polly’s neck met her left shoulder; she hunched a little there, and he wanted to nuzzle the space apart. Rather quickly they cross-rationalized their escapes from the fundraiser.

They headed to Polly’s place.

I’m no longer the creature of an hour ago. I leave this chamber filled and about to fulfill. I brim now with hot energy, and loose a little essence to the air. I send out a bit of my scent. I will open myself to the golden raiment. I’ll wear flecked white like drifts of creamy snow.

She turned her key and pushed the front door. Within were the lamps, the heat, and the smell from her new oven. She looked back at Hank with a smile and offered to share. She said there was only one and it wasn’t terribly large, but she conjectured that it might be perfect. She told him as she led the short way through her small place that her oven had stopped working months ago, but she hadn’t gotten the new one until the day before. And she’d just realized how long she had wanted a baked potato, and had therefore set about to gratify her desire. She had forked it and racked it as she left for the fundraiser, and they could tell by the scent of hot earth that it was ready.

Ah: open, open.
Open to release.
Oh the exquisite ease of pressure,
the balm of liquid gold:
White cream mounds my edges,
like ermine singed with onyx
and shot with steaming pearls.

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