lypophrenian. a vague feeling of sadness, seemingly without cause.
Lucius sat at his writing desk, floppy shirt-sleeves a-quiver, and looked out mournfully at the drab day. Rain. And it wouldn’t let him forget it as it lashed against his window, like clear blood splattered from a flayed Christ. Nice, he thought, as he took up his quill and made a note of that particular simile.
Outside, a ragged and bedraggled boy bounced past on a pogo-stick.
Lucia was upstairs, no doubt soaping her delicious form with Molton Brown something-or-other in between sips of Ovaltine (‘it’s an aphrodisiac, Luce’, she would say). He was aware, though, that he needed nothing more to make him tumescent than to see her peel off her stockings, or for her to wear (just) his frilly, white poet’s shirt, or work expertly with that peculiar lotion she kept in her bedside drawer. In fact, most days, all he had to do was see her smile to have the blood-rush that was so familiar, yet always so thrilling like the excited bubbles in a glass of Moët.
But not today. Today he felt that nothing would penetrate his feelings of dour despair. He heard her come down the stairs. He loved to watch her descend that endangered Brazilian rosewood staircase. Barefoot and light as a lady’s belch, she seemed to float on some ethereal breeze. Today, she was not merely barefoot. She was bare.
Lucius mustered a smile, but the gloom lingered behind his eyes. Lucia drifted over to him, uncaring that she was naked in front of a window, and sat on his lap. He put his arms around her, lightly brushing her ensellure with the tips of his fingers, and rested his cheek on her soft chest.
'What is it, my love?’ she enquired, stroking his hair. 'Normally my nudity makes you sweat like a stallion for me.’ She liked to be alliterative, even in speech, and often nicked quotes from Arthur Miller.
'Oh, just the weather, my writer’s block, and the terrible indifference of the merciless, unfeeling world. I am feeling lypophrenic today, acushla.’
'Dear Lucius,’ she sighed, sympathetically, gently pulling his face up by the chin so her beautiful eyes met his directly, honestly. It’s because it’s Sunday. Sunday is the saddest day. Now, for fuck’s sake, snap out of it. Look! There’s a boy out there with a prosthetic leg, so count yourself lucky you have both your lovely legs for me to straddle and shriek with delight.’
'That’s a pogo stick, Sweetie,’ Lucius corrected pleasantly.
'Oh. I wondered why he seemed so bouncy for a cripple.’ She looked at him and smiled. He smiled back, this time with more light behind his hooded eyes, and realised that his heart was pulsing like a subwoofer and he was stirring in response to the closeness of Lucia’s delectably kissable flesh.
She smelled wonderful; of indigo, mango, she smelled peppery, of sage, of bergamot and rosemary. And, as if she had control over the weather itself, (he suspected she probably did), the brooding clouds parted and an evening sky, flamingo-pink, nimbus-cottoned, was revealed to them.
She stood up, her breasts swaying enticingly, her skin glowing as if illuminated from within, and pulled him off.