Okefenokee Nights 1 – with Sappho (Elke)

In the kitchen, Lora, wiped her fingers of the quiche on her apron as the scent of fondue gurgled from a small cauldron-pot on the stove—slow simmering now like archeology—its bubbles rising and popping—then sighing—with a pathology of tonight’s soirée. Behind her, in the doorway, stood a man, intoxicated in love, spoke, “you got game.”

She didn’t turn around, just flexed her fingers once against the apron, feeling the dampness of dough and egg where she’d wiped them. The fondue sighed again—a wet, thick sound—and she whispered, “it’s only cheese.” Pouring herself a beaker, of Blue Nun Riesling —as Lora raised the beaker, sipped—letting the sweetness pool under her tongue before swallowing.

Outside, the humidity at 65% as the mosquito bugaboos swarmed and the late-evening fell as the Citronella Torches lit up the wooden deck, protruding 12 feet above the swamp—the clockwork on the wall, giggled 6pm in Waycross, Ga, on the Okefenokee, shackled by the torrents of evolution in the glades

Yet the man in the doorway was Arnaud, smelling faintly of crab Rangoon, his linen shirt sticking to the small of his back where he’d sweated through, earlier, wading through the bayou.

Lora finally turned, the wineglass catching the flicker of torchlight through the kitchen window—her pupils dilated just enough that he noticed—then she said, in that slow, deliberate Creole drawl, ”Cher, you ain’t here for the fondue.”

Lora took another sip of her glass. She knew exactly that the man behind her was only a product of her imagination. But this was nothing new. Since her childhood, when Father Bonaventura had introduced her to his very own perverted catechism, taking her virginity. The phantom, appearing as, ”Michael the Archangel (John Travolta),” But! It was nothing but a torrent of lust corrupting her thoughts of her stepson—he was probably masturbating now in the shower.

Her hand slipped beneath her apron, caressing her female contraption.