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There is a particular kind of intimacy that only arrives with winter. The world quiets, the nights stretch. And somewhere between dusk and dawn, the bed becomes a landscape of longing—of warmth, breath, and slow-drifting dreams. Enter: flannel sheets. Not the scratchy, inexpensive kind. I mean the good ones. Brushed cotton with a weight that
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The wind tugs at my skirt and blows its cold breath up my legs, making the bare skin above my stockings tingle. There is a brief reprise in the downpour, and I take the opportunity to dash from the office to a nearby café.
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The mangos are nestled in separate padded hollows, the market stand only a few feet wide. I gently pick one up, inhaling the glorious juicy aroma. I close my eyes, and stand for a few long seconds, allowing the scent to transport me back.
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I am on the third floor when the entry door shudders open, disgorging an obscenely handsome male-god in a dark blue shirt. I stop hard to avoid a collision, my lips parted, to find myself staring straight into his delightfully dark eyes..
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I sniff my arm, investigating, and realise that I can smell my recent lover on my forearm.
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Have you ever picked up on that undertone of eroticism when in the company of others?
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The room is already mostly full of serious looking females, seated on their single-wheeled bicycles.
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His eyes meet mine and he nods his head towards the kitchen and curls two fingers in a beckon. This is new.
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It’s good to be home. I very much relish the periods of time I spend in my oasis of comfort.
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Soul Journal 