In A Pickle

Obviously, the sandwich could hardly be blamed for the fact that the pickle that adorned it was homemade, and as such, Glorious.

But still, the simple fact of the matter was that it was. Homemade that is. Crisp, and hard, and green. And deliciously so.

Homemade-Sour-Spicy-Dill-Pickles

And this made the remainder of the sandwich – all of the contents sans one of course – very jealous indeed.

The pickle for its part simply sat there, in full knowledge of how good it was. Relishing if you will in the fact that of the entirety of “meh” contained in the remainder of the bite, it alone was the splash of “YES!” that would have the eater’s taste buds leaping up eagerly to attention.

Against the processed meats, preformed bread, packaged lettuce and pumped up and out mayo, the pickle alone was the only thing that was truly real; the only portion of the meal that was original, singular, and created with love.

And even had the pickle tasted like shit (and it indeed did most definitely NOT), that alone would have made the sandwich as a whole well worth the gastronomical adventure.

A bit convoluted in tale, the pickle stood out. Not because it fit in, but rather because it refused to. It refused to be anything other than what it was. It refused to – as pickles are oft to do – sacrifice its own unique flavor in order to be “dumbed down” by the remainder of the more bland-taste citizens that shared it’s space and existence. And the entire sandwich, processed meats, preformed bread, packaged lettuce and pumped up mayo be damned, hated it it for that very reason while at the same time being enhanced by its mere presence.

So, is all this set up of a cautionary tale simply a combination resulting from having an actual homemade pickle provided by a dear friend, plunked daringly upon an otherwise “pedestrian” handheld bite, and an overactive imagination in halftime overdrive? Or is it something more?

I for one, will never tell.

A Similar Morning Routine

Breakfast nook painted[1]

As always, it started with a smile.

The sort of broad and surprised smile that created ever-so slight crease lines around her mouth and under her eyes. The sort of lines that alerted you gently to the fact that this was a woman who knew joy. Or at least knew what it was supposed to be.

And she smiled it demurely, for me. Sure, the world out there might have thought that her contentment came from, and/or was intended for them. I mean, the world out there always does. But I knew different. I knew that that smile, those lines, and the peace that I saw glowing within her eyes – in that moment – was intended solely for me alone.

I knew, because I was lucky enough to share a life with her. I knew, because this morning, as always, she followed a similar routine. A routine I liked to call “Bliss.”

As with most mornings, she started by first filling me with her desire, holding me both lovingly and gingerly, in her hands. She then brought my face close to hers, touching the center of my labret delicately with just the very tip of her tongue, before pressing her lip firmly against mine in a lovers embrace. Draining me of my love dry, she filled herself with my heat as I willingly emptied myself at the same time.

She stroked my lip greedily with her tongue again. Leaving me shivering, cold, and somehow still full though empty, as she turned my world upside down, pulling into her very soul, my last drop and trace of sweetness.

Caressing me warmly just once more, she uttered something to the effect of “boy, now that was exactly what I needed,” before placing me delicately into the sink, my handle just touching the side of the glass tumbler that had held her Captain Morgan & Coke captive the night previous.

Both tumbler and I stared belligerently at each other for a moment. Knowing in our hearts that as we’d each fulfilled our purpose, we’d then been summarily dismissed. Knowing that neither of us would ever do so well as him. He who was able to drink her as she drank him. He, who was able to inebriate her, at the same time that she was energizing him. And knowing this, both tumbler and I wished that for even just one moment we could swap places with him. Wishing that just for once, that broad and surprised smile would truly be ours alone – mine alone – for all moments, and for always.

•••

In The Mood For A Dance.

As m’dad used to always say, “Follow where the pirates they lead you.”

Well, I suppose that’s a bit of an exaggeration, as what he actually used to say was quite a bit more dismissive, of both pirates, and people in general. But for this week, and as I continue to take prompt advice from my favorite Word Pirate (this time leading me over to the kids at Write Tribe), I’m pretending that the words written above, did at one point come from his mouth. As to my own mouth, I’ll simply continue saying that I hope that you enjoy this bit of fictional fluff…

6743bc0c-f84c-4b75-b2aa-82bafb353f8e_zps485e2995How do you do that?

How do I do what, honey?

How do you dance like that?

I don’t know sugar,  I suppose I just do it.

Just “do it?”

Just do it. Easy breezy.

But, you’re so graceful. Your hips are so swirly – your twirls, almost majestic!

Awww, thank you sweetie!

And those heels! Why, they have to be at least six inches….

Four.

They have to be at least four inches tall. How do you pirouette so flawlessly?

I don’t know sugar. Honestly, I don’t.

C’mon dad, seriously – how do you do that?

I don’t know honey, I suppose I just do.

•••

Thirty-three Words…

Rationed to my life,

If that was all I’d left,

I wouldn’t need but four.

To profess, between yester ‘n today,

My feelings respecting you.

Breathing dear, my last

“I love you more.”

•••

Picture11-1

Hellbent on going out on a high (and ball-peen free) note, I used the crux of the Trifecta challenge – as shown with today’s post title – by using “Thirty-three words,” as my prompt for this week’s free, and final, Trifecta Writing Challenge.

Coming in relatively late to the game (and YES – admittedly still bellyaching over never having won a week =) ), I really did enjoy my time with the Trifecta community, and wish you all the very best.

Unsatisfied

This mash-up brought to you by Trifecta’s very last one-word challenge, followed by Inspiration Monday‘s prompt. Both of which in turn were inspired by The Replacements, of course…

Picture11-1                                      vw-inmonpromo

The heels clicked smugly against hardwood, to satisfy her feeling victorious.

Never deeming a backward glance required – relishing with blind dispassion his devastation over losing her – as such, she never glimpsed the ball-peen rushing towards her head.

•••