One of the Memoirs

She kept swaying until his hand curled her waist from behind. She was high on him and vodka, a lethal concoction which was never off-list. His other hand interlaced her fingers making her drop the empty bottle breaking the silence of the moonlit night. The murmurs of “She will be loved” drowned in the chimes of wintery winds. They stood facing the white blooms of frangipani in the wooden ornate balcony illuminated with hazy glowed reflections. Silence prevailed until he decided to steal her from those blossoms and the moon for only himself. “I love those flowers as much as I love you.” She whispered near his heart. She fell asleep contented with his love, curling up in his arms which were the safest place for her in the world.

Her eyelashes fluttered as the rays penetrated the canopy bed turned into the White Sea of frangipanis smoldering golden in the sunshine. The petals slithered over her as a coverlet. Woven in her hairs, brushing her lips, embracing her neck, tickling her waist, devoted to her ankles, they were everywhere. And once again she fell in love with him and those frangipani succulent buds forever.