Sunday, 22 January 2012

The jug


It sat there, reflecting distorted room back at him, glossy shine from which she was absent.

Her hands, delicate and creative, designed to shape curvy inversions from clay; they made his own lumpen digits look like unformed clay by comparison, blunted heaviness to hammer and break, not to shape. She was the creator, he the witness, standing by the side, minimal contribution.



Colour didn't matter to her, any splat would suffice to set off the milky white; only shape really mattered. Not functional, but cosmetic.

The top was pure flower-shaped femininity. He knew it intimately. From above it was so obvious to him, glossy lips and the small black hole of the neck, no accident that design as she stretched and smoothed with delicate fingers, a joke perhaps, or maybe subconscious, they didn't ever discuss the resemblance to secret places. He stared at it and went down the rabbit hole, a painless squeeze to fulfilment he never understood, but needed, she was the cause and he the witness, outside and within at the same time, but he had to get out ¬– this wasn't a rabbit hole but a warren, tunnels of taste, a maze of memory leading to painful smells, and sights, and sensations that tore him back out in horror at the finger-snapping pain of loss. His eyes distorted, wetness refracting the molten room, nothing was sure and reliable anymore, but he could still see the pregnant curve below the neck; the vessel she'd created to hold something, something he would have loved; she was the creator, he the witness of minimal contribution, and to lose both in the smashed memory of horror, paining, keening, he couldn't sit there any longer, he loved and hated it...

As the sharp pieces of the jug settled on the floor, spinning from his heavy-handed violence, he sat there, a distorted man with no shine, nothing to reflect now that she was absent.
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