Savor Of Fig
By Rob Mohr
Verna waits for him. Her body trembles in anticipation. She gasps for breath – then is still. He will come soon.
In the cool of the late afternoon Peter maneuvers his 1958 Porsche into his narrow parking slot. He opens his car door slamming it into the new Nissan coupe that has encroached on his space, then squeezes through the narrow opening between cars. Frustrated, he yanks open his heavy wrought iron garden gate which strikes his equally eloquent iron fence and bounces back striking his leg.
“Damn!” He mutters as he hobbles into his garden where the rich fragrance of his roses floods over him. Forgetting his pain, he stoops to breathe in their essence. His mind clears as the day’s tensions seep out of his body. Content, images of Verna take form in his mind.
From above, Verna watches Peter move through the garden. As he touches each plant she feels his caress. Her desire grows. She strokes her stomach to calm herself.
Peter has worked hard to make their garden a horticultural delight, one filled with cultivated roses whose delicate hues shift from a subtle purple to a pale orange, intense red, and faint pink. His fingers caress his favorite, an impossible translucent blue rose. Each petal of the rose, like the rest of his garden, is perfect, and flourishes in stark contrast to his weathered brick townhouse where Verna waits.
‘He is my flower,’ she thinks, as the full scent of his body wafts up to her. Aroused, she anticipates the taste of his body.
Peter moves to a bush in the center of the garden and picks a ripe fig of a deep purple color. Placing the fig in his mouth its heavy musky overtones overwhelm his senses. Satiated, he licks the remains of fig from his lips.
Watching, Verna licks her lips in harmony with Peter. The savor of fig fills her. In the semi-darkness she removes her night dress. She touches herself in anticipation.
Peter sits for a moment on the wooden garden bench to reflect on his creation. He observes how holly and other broad leaf evergreens provide contrast. How the dogwoods and a flowering cherry add shade and a change of scale. He dotes on the wild flowers he has transplanted from the river bank, each with its unique, pungent scent. Satisfied, he is at peace, integrated into the lushness that surrounds him. His sense of unity peaks his desire to be one with Verna. They like the garden will merge, to materialize fresh and new.
She trembles, aware of his deep desire. Her body is on fire.
Looking up at her open window, he senses her desire. A premonition takes hold of him as he looks down at the rich dark earth where a new plant has pushed its slender green leaves above the ground. Overcome, he sees that it is a vitis aestivalis, and that Verna is manifest in the emerging vine. Anticipating her essence in the fruit, his mouth fills with the zest of orange and chocolate. Excited by his vision – filled with anticipation, Peter hurries into their town house.
Naked, Verna waits in the cool darkness – makes no sound as she curls her legs under her and listens to his quick steps on the stairs. Ecstatic, she anticipates how their bodies will intertwine. She runs her hands across the pillows, smoothing them, then pulls down their deep purple bed covers as the last light of the afternoon sun creates a soft pattern of shadows across her sybaritic body.