She wakes up.
A thread of soft, delicious sleep still lingers on her, like the furry tail of Bartolomeo, the cat.
And as she smiles and closes her eyes, the world stops moving right there. No breeze, no sound from the sea, no light, no smell, nothing.
Her body becomes immaterial and her sensations turn into some sort of electricity, as if she were dispersed into the air and the bed sheets.
Then there is light. Tiny and sharp, of uncertain color – a will-o-wisp. It moves fast. Around it, the woman’s floating being is reshaped, as if the small drop of electricity is re-drawing her on black paper. And, with increasing clarity, the woman regains sensations and firmness in her body, her mind is again focused and suddenly she can see again. She can see herself in the dim, quickly revolving light.
Then the wisp zigzags in front of her, faster and faster and starts to leave a trail of persistent blinding light behind. And the woman starts to feel another presence being created by the threading light – a presence around her, on her skin and devilishly exciting. A presence inside her.
He calls himself Oberon. In his presence, she cannot speak, she can only whisper or scream uncontrollably.
She does not know how to call the episodes that happen each night, somewhere at the border between sleep and sobriety, this world and the other. But she knows that she is marked, she will never be taken so far in extasy by any man and she will have in memory that this kind of extasy is possible to her mind and her body.
Oberon is an undefined presence, made of sounds, physical materializations and electricity – the magical kind of electricity which talks directly with the nerves, at the periphery of the body, those places you cannot voluntarily reach and have thus never been reached before.
A single sound, or a touch, or a shiny surge on her skin is enough to twist her body in a peculiar, impossible trance, or bliss – that should not be available to humans, because they are greedy and the single most coveted subject of their greed is pleasure. Sometimes he lets her bask in her abandon, persisting in his lavish, atomic salvo of sensations. He adds rythm to it and combines the atoms into chains and subtle arrangements.
And when he stops, the woman’s body becomes immaterial again, as in the begining. There is no more pain, no more darkness or light.
For once, there is nothing. And she loves it –
And that’s not a word to be said on a trifle. She genuinely loves it. She knows.