I stretch with feline languidity beneath the thin white sheet, the vestiges of sleep are still heavy in my limbs. He is standing by the open window, half-covered in shadows, looking out at the enroaching dusk. Outside the sea is noiseless, calm, no longer breaking violently against the rocks. Hearing the sheets rustle behind him, he turns. His silhouette is outlined by the dying light behind him. He hasn't bothered to dress. The glow of a cigarette hovers between his fingers and the scent of tobacco reaches me with the salted breeze.
My dark angel.
I stretch my arm out lazily towards him, and he takes a step forwards. I see him clearly now. He stubs out his cigarette. The curtians billow gently behind him. He looks at me again with a serious expression. "Delilah", he utters, his voice deep and low, seeming to escape from a crack in his soul. The single syllable leaks into me, caresses me like the warm froth of the sea, what Camus called "the saliva of the gods" (such carnal poeticism). Then he takes another step forward and pulls the sheet off my body, letting it drop to the floor beside him. I look up at him expectantly, and his eyes, almost blue, meet mine. They peruse my body as he walks slowly, deliberately, around the bed. He looks at my exposed body intently, calmly. It is so still and silent I can hear his breathing. I am the object of his intention as he circles the bed almost contemplatively. Or is it with an inner, vulture-like viciousness I am not privy to that he does so?
Finally he looks into my eyes again, and I frown slightly, because I am stranger to his thoughts. My frown is returned with a smile that falls deliciously upon his lips, bringing a gleam into his eyes. "Delilah", he says again, strongly, as if convinced of something. He has many ways of calling me to him. Then leans down towards me, his warmth touching mine and seals my name with a kiss.