9th Day - Windchimes

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Photo by David Mancini on Unsplash

You kiss her neck, breathing in the scent of yourself on her, the scent of the past night on her moist skin.

“I’d never done it in a treehouse,” you say, and she chuckles, and you feel her breath on your shoulder, you enjoy the life moving between her organs with a hand on her belly and your chest on her chest.

A chilled breeze moves the leaves above your heads and cools down your bodies; the windchimes playing their protecting music for you.

She lights a cigarette and closes her eyes. “If only my father knew you’re not a boy,” she says, and laughs, although more bitterly than before.

Her father, you think, why does this make you shiver?

The breeze is still blowing, the leaves are still moving, but the sound of the windchimes has suddenly stopped.