All her shyness became coyness, and she pushed me deeper in the bean bag until I was a turtle. As I struggled, she smiled and rolled me, laughing into the night, the party, the room, and I loved her more and more with every one.
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Sancho Santos snapped awake at the crack of thunder, blinding him as the flash filled his eyes with lambency. Outside, the lightning needled the buttermilk sky and pulled it taut for the thunder to pound on it like a blitz of war drums. The shutters of his garden window were drawn to the top, the window hanging ajar; the scent of rain was wafting in on pregnant winds. Diamond drops dappled the panes and sparkled, some dived inward and died on the sill, others splashed on the wilting spider plants and shrubs. The honeycomb gold storm roared and quaked all the while, prompting him to slink up and creak the window shut. As he pulled the panes to a close, though, an urge overcame him and he let them swing out again as he took in the sights.
At the window, the view from Saturday was great; The Saturday Lofts were known for amazing vantage points at every window. The sunset cherry sat low on the horizon every evening, just as the sunrise warmed his back every morning. It was a pretty penny to reside in any of these junctures, but it was worth it to sit on the windowsill and dream all day.
Sancho languidly coaxed his eyelids apart and called in his head to see; the sands of dreams slowly blew away and left him staring down at a five story drop, ending abruptly on the concrete two hundred feet below. He began to lift his head and stare straight out, stopping at a streetlight roughly eye level. The soft amber glow helped to ease the strain of the downy yellow sky, up until another flash filled his irises with shimmering agony. A peal of thunder shook the panes and sent him reeling back, tumbling to the floor as he clutched his eyes and writhed.
From the floor, he stared at the ceiling and waited for the prismatic crack to fade. As it slowly began to, he turned his head to the clock on the wall beside him and wagered the time. He wagered about three o'clock, it looked to be about three o'clock outside, with the sun behind the churning clouds. As he looked, he saw the time was closer to one; it was still a Saturday to be salvaged.
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Sancho Santos snapped awake at the crack of thunder, blinding him as the flash filled his eyes with lambency. Outside, the lightning needled the buttermilk sky and pulled it taut for the thunder to pound on it like a blitz of war drums. The shutters of his garden window were drawn to the top, the window hanging ajar; the scent of rain was wafting in on pregnant winds. Diamond drops dappled the panes and sparkled, some dived inward and died on the sill, others splashed on the wilting spider plants and shrubs. The honeycomb gold storm roared and quaked all the while, prompting him to slink up and creak the window shut. As he pulled the panes to a close, though, an urge overcame him and he let them swing out again as he took in the sights.
At the window, the view from Saturday was great; The Saturday Lofts were known for amazing vantage points at every window. The sunset cherry sat low on the horizon every evening, just as the sunrise warmed his back every morning. It was a pretty penny to reside in any of these junctures, but it was worth it to sit on the windowsill and dream all day.
Sancho languidly coaxed his eyelids apart and called in his head to see; the sands of dreams slowly blew away and left him staring down at a five story drop, ending abruptly on the concrete two hundred feet below. He began to lift his head and stare straight out, stopping at a streetlight roughly eye level. The soft amber glow helped to ease the strain of the downy yellow sky, up until another flash filled his irises with shimmering agony. A peal of thunder shook the panes and sent him reeling back, tumbling to the floor as he clutched his eyes and writhed.
From the floor, he stared at the ceiling and waited for the prismatic crack to fade. As it slowly began to, he turned his head to the clock on the wall beside him and wagered the time. He wagered about three o'clock, it looked to be about three o'clock outside, with the sun behind the churning clouds. As he looked, he saw the time was closer to one; it was still a Saturday to be salvaged.
