The way she has positioned herself on the armchair has caused a single fold of velvet, wine-red and shimmering, to hang, lazily, pooling out from her dress, reaching downward in a smooth, speckled curve of fabric.

When he closes his eyes, the pattern waltzes before his eyelids in sleepy motion, an elaborate dance of lights that swing and sway like white gulls above the sea.

His hand creeps up; rising, rising. His arm elongates and twists as a swan’s neck, until the velvet just grazes his knuckle: it is his.

His eyes remain closed as his fingers now explore the fabric, gliding up, down, frail bones creaking beneath a wrapper of flesh, lost in a velvet ocean. But the waves are disturbed by an invader, creeping in and returning all to stillness.

It is her hand, seeking his beneath the waves, and she clasps his palm, the drowning one clinging to the strong rescuer. He wants to tell her that he loves her, and her mouth forms the words ‘I need you’.

But both remain silent, each hand striving to speak for them, to push out the sweet affections long lost to the bitter tang of the years, as sunken ships: resting on the seabed, slumbering in the black waters.

Preserved, guarded by ghosts.

RATE THIS CHAPTER!