Her Golden Tress
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom
the original photo
The One With The Golden Tress
No less beguiling was her golden tress, dangling, catching sunlight in the untamed weave of curls—for a moment I did not hear her, as I was swept away by the dream of a thousand lashes lashing against my chest, as we undressed her inhibitions one-by-one—not that she had any, not that she cared, not that she even knew my name.
At least, she teased me by pretending to forget.
We had just met at the old coffee shop—thank God our town wasn’t big enough for Starbucks or Seattles or any other of those cookie-cutter places.
And now we were walking along the train tracks, the afternoon sweltering and glistening, rising in sultry waves from the jagged rocks that lie yonder.
A bead of summer sweat rolled down my back as I looked up at the giant fan that we eventually found ourselves under, inside the abandoned building of The Giant Sun—an old raisin factory where hundreds of women used to come to pick out the stems and moldy bits; their hair held back in a beautiful array of bandanas and makeshift scarves, some of them, held atop in buns pinned together with a hundred hairpins.
She, however, had let her hair down, so that when she spun 'round in the spotlight that was beaming down from the broken window, it whipped around in perfect unison with the hem of her cottony-white, see-through summer dress.
Before I could imagine slipping it off of her, suddenly, I felt my heart pounding; suddenly, I realized that I too had forgotten her name— not that it really mattered, not that anything mattered beyond that moment under the giant glistening sun, under the giant fan in the factory that once housed a thousand working women.
It really didn’t matter, for she was the one with the golden tress and I—I was blessed simply to be with her.
(R&O thank you for the inspiration)