the schematic wing

He lay resting in a lounge chair—palm trees shading the coconut shape of his face and field of hair that sprouted around his jaw line. Beer bottles accumulated around their open toes, as the increasing inebriation made their cheeks swell with vehemence and their lips pulsate with carnal curiosity. I walked passed him, and he brushed the bend of my leg faintly, as if to fool my reality. To tease my mindfulness into disarray and have me figure that by imagination I had dreamt him murmur the confidence of a masculine heart. “Where you walkin’ off to?” his friend tried to reel me back. I flirted. I always do. Always condescendingly, like a humorous amusement I've already appropriated. Just sighting you from behind. “Anything worth framing?” Nothing spectacular. “Feisty, are you?” I’m quick to the touch. The silence within staring surrounded me. “I like your eyes. I like the way they are painted.” I closed them purposefully so the lid and lashes would fall like the impression of a wing. I colored them last night. Sleep is the only activity that may have changed their shadow. “I don’t believe that sleep is the only thing you do between night and morning.” I dream wakefully and sleep without rest. “Well, you certainly use the best set of colors because I see no signs of stain.” Decoration is a scheme of embellishment. It helps furnish the fiction and sell the product as fact.