Heat

It's so hot, the heat is like a presence in the room. The walls, the floor, this sofa I'm sluggishly sprawled on, it's all to the boiling point. We are, too, half lethargic, half fevered. You've got your eyes closed and are fanning yourself with that coquettish Japanese fan, up and down it goes, rhythmically swooshing up and down, momentarily hiding, showing, hiding your face.

I look at the sweaty brilliance of your face, your neck, your shoulders and I'm stirred, but it's hard to move, voluntary action seems too much of an effort, so I let my thoughts wander around in slow motion in my head, while I look at you.

Who could guess what I'm thinking now. Would it be obvious by looking at my glazed expression that I'm thinking of licking the sweat off you? The drops that fall down the side of your face look particularly delectable. The ones that trail down your torso are ... ravishing.

Up and down goes the fan, I don't know how you find the little energy it takes to move it. I'm completely paralyzed myself and continue to lay in the sofa, and it feels like a bed full of hot coals, dries my skin, and makes me expel my own heat waves into the room, but it's strangely comforting to be in this cocoon of heat, smelling your body from a distance, smelling my own salty, spicy sweat as it dries the moment it touches the air.

My insides tremble, heavily, when I think of passing my tongue from your shoulder up to your earlobe, taking that tender, juicy button of flesh in my mouth, like an all too alluring lollipop. In spite of the sizzling temperature, I shudder and let off a wave of my own heat. I'm tempted to go to you, you're starting to look like a cold drink in a glass whose walls are full of condensation, drops slowly drip drip dripping, and I feel like licking them off before they reach your t-shirt and leave a mark.

But you're not a cold drink, you are a deliciously hot beverage, letting off steam full of fragrance, tempting me to take a sip. Your scent spirals around the room and tickles my nose, enticing my senses, but not yet quite enough to overcome this heat-induced lassitude that has me knocked over.

I'm really thinking of licking the sweat off you, drop by drop, dry you off, drink you in completely. I lick my dry lips and can almost taste your salty sweat, so delicious.

The fan stops moving and you throw your arm over your brow, half covering your face but not quite. I can still see your closed eyes, and I perceive movement behind the lids. One would think you dreaming your own hot dreams, but I hear you moan, a listless sound that speaks of your mind and body being in the present, under the oppressing quality of mercury rising to the top.

Your moan marks the moment for me. I slowly raise, stretch the lethargy off my limbs, and advance towards you while I lick my dry lips, full of anticipation. I challenge the thermometer to signal my temperature. There isn't enough mercury in the world to mark how hot I am this very minute.