Poetry Train Monday # 3 - Introducing: Magda Part 2
For today’s entry, I bring you more of Magda’s story from my work in progress. Go here to read part one. Climb aboard Rhian’s Poetry Train.
At home, I told myself that I was not lonely, though surely the oldest living virgin in Western Canada. But now, dancing with Georgios, dancing in front of these men, their admiration obvious, I could see myself more clearly than before. Running my fingers through my shoulder length black hair, I pretended I was Melina Mercouri arching my back, pushing my breasts forward, my full hips effortlessly following the syncopated drumming. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t a size six.
A strange sort of ecstasy began to mount in me, something I had never felt before. Excitement at first, it became a wild exuberance. I looked up and saw that the men were transfixed a silence settling upon them. I no longer felt like I would never marry, that a virginal future moved toward me, immovable.
Give me a cigarette.
Give me fire.
Let me feast on your caresses.
For as daybreak approaches
My companions were getting drunk. They were pushing each other out of the way to sit next to me. Georgios was quieter than the others looking at me with a shy expression. He offered me his hand. I accepted his unspoken invitation leaving the bacchanal behind.
In silence walked up to the small peak of this rocky town. There were large olive trees there, with branches that came down almost to the ground. We passed a few other couples embracing, hidden under the trees. We walked further, an eagerness between us.
I should not be here.
I wanted to be here.
I was here.
Finally, there was a place for us, under the watchful eyes of Saints. He sat down; a stones throw away from a long abandoned chapel, its doors firmly clamped by a rusted padlock. He gestured for me to join him. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. I found the courage to ask him something.
Georgios, do you like living here?
Yes, In Greece.
He looked over at me and raised his shoulders, a non-shrug. Then looked above me. His gaze settled on the Chapel. In his broken English he told me this small church was dedicated to the Holy Trinity: Father, Son and Holy Spirit. It was centuries old. The icons had been removed in order to protect them from the invading infidels across the water. Some enterprising islanders decided that selling them to private art collectors on the black market was better than leaving them to be destroyed. His great grandfather managed to salvage a few and now they are family heirlooms.
You like icons?
Yes, I grew up with them.
What you paint?
I send you one.
Somehow, because he had to struggle so hard with his words, I trusted him. No talk anymore, he whispered, taking my hand and putting his finger to my lips.
I felt anxious to be doing this so close to the house of God. I was looking over his head into the trees and he was unbuttoning my blouse. He stood up, pulled me against him and unfastened my bra. He took my hand and pressed it against him.