#LIGHTSMITH CORD WINDOWS#

She concentrates on coffee and newspapers, an antidote. “Mummy! Daddy! Wake up! Wake up!” George pats his mother’s face. She becomes utterly suffused with warmth. He places his hand in the small of her back. Her head nestles in the crook of her arm. She turns away, her chestnut hair spilling over his knee. Birds are gliding back and forth, in and out the windows, around and around the room as if over sea. A breeze ruffles gossamer curtains that surge and swell, billowing shadows, shivering the cloth of her pale silk gown.

#LIGHTSMITH CORD WINDOWS#

She is lying on cool floorboards below long windows in thin gold light. She is in that half world where dreams float near the edge of consciousness. The lush opiate of sleep descends again, clouding Laura’s limbs, pressing her down. She curls her legs into his, gently pressing into the soft heat, his spine a cord touching womb, belly, breast. Laura follows, wrapping her arm around his broad back, seeking out his hand. The cat has clawed through the backing on a misbegotten journey to the open window last summer, leaving a mosaic of shifting tones at sunrise.

Very early morning a glimpse of light begins to penetrate the thin Regency striped curtains. His breath is humid and rhythmic against her ear. “Can’t we start this way?” Gordon obliges, turning Laura to enclose her spoon style. Gordon plants a quick kiss and turns to the wall. Laura slips in beside him tucking her cold feet beneath his calves. The last of the duvets flutters down on top of him. “Your turn to make the bed.” “Chivalry is dead.” Laura reluctantly tugs the mountain of duvets from the floor swinging them up one by one as Gordon slides down the crisp coolness, a warm lingering human scent, a high note of washing powder. Gordon catches himself in the mirror and raises his eyebrow, cocks his head, smoothes his hair and smiles, like Arnie in ‘The Terminator’, then steps back and sighs with the discontent of the privileged. “Around the world in eight minutes.” Fully sated Gordon slaps closed the book infusing the air with must. “Good name for a pop group, “ says Gordon. Chile slipping down the edge of South America like a red hot chilli pepper. There’s Toronto where Gordon’s brother lives. Gordon lifts the atlas off the russet carpet and opens it across their laps. Petty grievances and the day’s observations evaporate unspoken. Snuggle up on the sofa that dominates the room, a soft cinnamon nest in the evening glow.

Laura’s lips graze Lucie’s plump cheek Gordon ruffles George’s shiny black mop. Laura and Gordon lean down simultaneously to kiss their children. A fading mural of Pegasus takes flight on the wall in the half-light. Welcome to the home of Laura and Gordon Talbot.

Lightsmith cord