Searching for Erato

Sitting in a hole in the wall where I like to write, I just stared at the screen; it was something I seemed to do a lot of lately. The words were hard to come by.

“What are you writing?”

I looked up at a woman in a mauve summer dress complimented with the straps of a lime green bra. Without any hesitation and not meaning to, I simply said, “Not much of anything.”

She looked at me and them pulled back the other chair and made herself comfortable. She rested her elbows on the table and cupped her hands under her chin hugging her neck. She stared at me as if she was deciding something important.

Her eyes were dark and deep, and it would be easy to get lost in them. Her face framed a strong nose, and her cheeks were pink with softly applied rouge that complemented her bright red lips — her lower lip was accented with a small silver ring. Her hair was as dark as her eyes and pulled up in a haphazard way and a small pink bow resting on one side. Colourful tattoos of green, and yellow, and red covered the length of her left arm while on her left, there were the outlines of images and words which left the impression of something in the making. She was intense in her beauty.

As as small smile exposed white teeth, and as she extended her right hand over the top of my computer, she said, “Hello, I’m Harriet.” Her voice sounded like a soft song.

Taking her hand, I told her my name was Winston and took longer than I should have to release her. She broke into a big smile.

“Like Winston Churchill? He was a lovely man you know. It’s true though, he was a bit of drinker and quite the orator; wrote his own speeches. He would write a love letter to Clementine every week; quite the imagination when he put his mind to it.”

Harriet had placed her hand back under her chin and started staring again.

“So, Winston, what do you write when you’re not, not writing much of anything?”

“Well mostly, I write and blog for work.” As she continued to stare, I couldn’t help adding, “I also have a small side hustle and write erotica, which at the moment, seems to be a problem.”

Harriet’s stare softened and she folded he arms on the table. “Oh Winston, you’re an erotic poet. This is simply lovely. You must share.”

Now I was the one who was staring as I slowly closed my laptop. “I didn’t say I was a poet; I just blog about people having sex”. And as I laughed, I said, “Not many words rhyme with clitoris.”

“Well, Deloris for one, but that is beside the point. You are expressing the experiences between two people, well maybe more; it is not just a blog about people having sex, you are writing about what it is to be human — very noble.” She was very serious when she said it.

“Well, as I said I am not writing much, and I should get going.” I reached for my bag and started to pick up my computer.

“Winston, there’s a couple behind you at the back of the room — they’ve been talking in whispers for a while now; they won’t last, but for the moment, they’re enjoying each other. He wants her to remove her panties and let him caress her as they kiss; they will be discrete but hope people watch. She wants to but worries she will be to too loud. You suppose you could write about that?”

I’m mesmerized with her voice and loose myself in her dark eyes. When I realize she’s finished, I say, “I absolutely could. Thanks.”

“You are welcome. Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Do you have a lover?”

“I do,” I say.

“That’s wonderful. Probably for the best anyway,” she says with a sigh.

Harriet’s dark eyes brightened, she pushes her chair back and without saying anything, walks away. As I watch her, I open my laptop, and when she is out of sight, I start to type.

W