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July 2016, vol 12 no 2

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Evonne Brennan Moore

Liminality


I imagined A Grand Affair. I imagined furtively meeting my lover once a week in the afternoon in a beautiful room. The two of us thrashing about passionately as our souls meshed together in love. Glowing together, our hearts enriched in the afternoon gold. I imagined a Stately Hotel, probably in Europe – high ceilings, green satin and brocade curtains with silky tassels, plush carpets, a deep bath. A maid delivering refreshments – little fishy sandwiches, sweet iced cakes and fragrant tea in delicate floral china.

As it turned out, we met on a Tuesday afternoon in a Drive-in Motel squeezed between a Motor Mechanic Workshop and a Drive-Thru Burger Franchise on the highway, just out of town. It was a tiny brown room with squeaky corrugated carpet, scratchy furnishings and plumbing problems. But I didn’t really pay attention to this for the first two months. I was in love. And he loved me! I was having A Grand Affair. We refreshed ourselves with burgers and cokes from next door. With fries. He told me he loved me. I believed in love. For two months.

Until I was showering, with the door open of course, as always with him. My dance of further seduction in the steam. The Nude, the Mirror, the Basin – all the elements of Classic Art! I was seeking his gaze – THAT GAZE that melts me down and fuels me up at the same time . . .

The blue lights from the television screen pulsed on his face. I stood on the tiles and gazed at his profile. Grease dripped from his hamburger onto the sheets.

A hard cold grey dusk
sneaks in under the door.
Night has a blunt fringe


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