Orangery

I sheltered in the Orangery.

Neither wind nor rain could stop what I’d begun.

She was everything. My desire to possess her, all consuming.

Wife to another, I cared not for convention or the opinion of others. She was everything.

The turn of her head. Her profile in the half light through a window. The way her eyes reflected the light. The coils of her chestnut brown hair. The way I would unfasten the parade of buttons at the back of her dress, given the opportunity.

I sheltered in the Orangery and tried to control my breathing.

The click of a door catch. The creak of the hinge. The stiffening of the hairs on the back of my neck as I anticipated her approach. I knew it was she. I sensed her scent on the air.

She walked slowly, trailing her hands across the leaves of exotic plants. I heard her footsteps bringing her closer. I pictured her eyes, now grey, now green, now blue, always frank, and suddenly she was upon me.

I rose from the wooden seat on which I effected my repose.

“Mrs Grey,” I began, but her mouth found mine, hot and urgent, and I ceased.


In response to a Past Postcards tweet.

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