His past lovers never quite fade away.
He thought of her last night when a bold, silver moon sailed across an inky sky that had already been carefully subdivided by his leaded window. She had always been affected by the moon. She would become a little wild and insane when it was full, confessing her forbidden love for him, and desperately trying to retract it when the circle waned. She feared it would frighten him away.
He knows she adores him still.
As if possessing some celestial radar that had captured his nocturnal musing, her mail sat shyly in his in-box this morning.
She had been on a wind-blown, sometimes sun-blessed, patient and uncertain holiday in the West Country, decorating the August beaches with her tall, statuesque, bikini-clad, goddess-like figure. She told him that she had taken long, dog-accompanied walks on rugged, brave cliff tops and laughed and skipped like a child through the cold waves of the Cornish sea.
It was not hard for him to imagine her there, being admired and almost recognised because of her occasional television face.
She wrote that she still misses him, still longs for him, still has memories of the collar, the cuffs and her only-to-him-ever-in-her-life submission that steals her breath away and makes her weak.
He knows it is shallow of him, but a little flattery is just what he needs to lift his spirits on this rain-soaked, end-of-summer day.
Photo stolen from egoyao