The Traveller by Afrodykie

D is for … Guess

HA HA. That’s funny, hey?!
Yes, D is for a lot of things, but mostly desire, dancing and delicious.
Desire? Uhoh … that pesky little beast of banality, it just won’t behave.
Sit, you say, sit!
Grrrr, it says, GRRRRRRR.
There’s just no end to its insistence.
It’s doing its damndest to make you move but you don’t know.
You can’t see a signpost. No, not anywhere, not even on the quiet roads where kindred spirits manifest —- in your fertile imagination.
You lope along being you, and talk to your hunting dog Vento.
Dammit, you scower the horizon but your desire is all at sea, floundering…
The shopkeeper laughs when you sit alone to enjoy the Greek dancing, the school’s end of the year performance in Eressos Square.
She will come, she will come, he says, narrowing his eyes as he draws on a cigarette.
You love the dancing, and the music that goes with it. There’s a new moon and the entire village it seems, is watching the performers.
First, the carefree little ones, full of gusto and awash in the innocence of cherubs.
They know their moves and sync their steps, sort of.
They’re followed by the group that exhibits an awkward restraint.
Budding breasts and gangly legs get in the way of nonchalance but oh, what beauties.
The seniors, well, you recognise some ex-pats in the dancing group and they seem too cerebral in their movements, not enough give in the knees, you know.
Nevertheless, it’s a lovely evening, and then it’s time for delicious.
You have a yawning taste for warmth, and sweetness, so your honey milk and cinnamon, she takes you to bed. Your delightful dairy belle.


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