Now he was looking at them. Those dark eyes that he had so pleasurably penetrated, just a while ago, a few minutes of privately shared, if not stolen ecstasy. They were tough eyes. This surprised him for none of this toughness had he encountered before. But he knew that this time, he was not penetrating. Just merely looking n noticing. They had brown flecks on the outer irises. She had had many a difficult day, but his gut instinct told him that none of them, had she not gotten through, n done so proudly. Now he wished for her to walk away. A handshake, a direct smile, anything to render acknowledgment would spoil the purity of what had just transpired. He could choose to walk away but that would seem a bit rude. He was the one who had initiated the contact, the moment. He was the hunter, yet his respect for women led him to want to allow that small tiny, tinsy amount of power. The power to keep or loose. They n only they, got to decide this. If he were calling the shots, he’d have recommended that they just leave, but he did not. It was a decision he did not take part in. Lucky for him, this particular woman seemed to understand, (intimately so), the intricate details behind the episode. She blinked; a sultry blink that in less than a second cleared her eyes. She looked up, to his left, past him, n for all the world could tell, something extremely enchanting could have got her attention.

He breathed in, slow at first, then deeply n turned away.

Again, he knew, felt, rather than observed, her walk away, past him. He knew because he had felt it before, especially if no acknowledgments were made. There was a severe n crude abruptness to the disconnect of it all, that his heart of hearts always felt. Strained at. It was a difficult thing to do. To share (for however short a time), then swiftly return, a soul, for t’would be gravely ruthless, oh, so unforgivably more cruel, to keep it to himself.

But he moved on, she ceased to exist. It was over.

The sun was going down. Only but a quarter of it was left behind. It shone a furious red, almost like it was angered at having to leave the scenery behind. He winked at it, a salute to commend it, for it n only it, had had the privilege to share in his fantasy. He stood up, quite graciously in-fact, gave it a nod, a slight respectful bow of his head, then he turned, away from it, away from its fierce intensity, bent down n chose a marble. He picked the smoothest he could get, for y, he wondered, would he choose a ridged one, when he was spoilt for choice? It was white, with reddish brown spots, he rolled it on his palm, n softly caressing its sun-burnt surface, closed his palm around it. It was his too, for a few precious seconds, he let himself enjoy its warmth, that which the sun behind him had bestowed upon it through the day, he shared his body warmth too. Then slowly, he lifted his arm, blew some hot air into his palm, the pebble seemed to welcome this, then without stopping to think, for that might clutch at his more genial side, he gave a swift throw of his arm, n spiraling, spinning n giving a wheezing sound, off the pebble went. He had sent it to the waves, they would find it later, when the winds returned, but for now, with grace n a flourish, he had briefly given it a dazzle, as skipping, 5 times too, with an accompanying shy pop, it went into the sea. A new venture, new environs too. He knew the warmth he shared would last for just but a second in the chilly depths of the clear waters, but twas a head-start, n he had enjoyed giving it.

Sighing… I still wonder, ‘what IS fantasy’?

The end.

Wed- 7:57am.