Venus and The Sailor, 1925, by Salvador Dali
“Come with me,” she whispered.
“Where?” he asked, mesmerized by the way she danced, flowing with such ease into each turn, sensing his moves as if they’d done it a hundred times before.
“Does it matter?” she murmured just before he lightly spun her away, then pulled her back into his body, the fit tight and true.
Smiling, he turned her in his arms, saying quietly, the words a soft breath in her ear, “Tell me your name, beautiful one.”
“Venus,” she replied.
“Named after the goddess.” Lowering his head, he said against her lips, “It is the only name for you.”
They never lost step in the dance as they kissed, moving in harmony, tireless, intoxicated by taste and touch. She looked into his eyes when their lips drew apart and said, “Not named after the goddess. I am the goddess.”
He smiled indulgently, pulled her close. “Yes, my beauty, you most definitely are a goddess.”
With a slight frown, she said peevishly, “No. You’re not listening. I am the goddess, you silly mortal.”
“Of course you are,” he placated, swirling her gently in his arms. “You could be no other.”
Eyes narrowed, shards of anger fueling her temper, she abruptly stopped dancing and snapped, “Your tone implies disbelief.”
Suddenly, sparks of fire shimmered across her eyes, her face took on an otherworldly glow as the shadow of her body grew taller, looming. Dropping to his knees, kissing her feet, he begged her forgiveness. After a moment, daring to raise his head, he was very grateful to see a soft smile curl her lips as she reached out to tenderly cup his face.
“Come with me,” she said again.
This time he didn’t question. “Anywhere.”
Her mood restored, she took his hand when he stood and they walked together into the sea. He hesitated for just an instant when the waves swelled against his chest, but Venus held him in her arms, her kisses deep and powerful, sweeping all sense and reason out of his mind. They made love, over and over, and over again, dancing as the sea embraced them, held them safe, caressed them as they caressed each other.
When the sailor hadn’t returned to his ship by the next afternoon, a search was undertaken, of the port, the taverns, the beach. His naked body was found, gently washed ashore by the incoming tide, on a lonely stretch of sand. The men who pulled him from the water said they would never forget the look on his face. They crossed themselves, sent prayers to their gods, cast fearful glances out to sea. What would cause a dead man to wear such an intense look of rapture on his face?
Bored with haiku, thought I would go back to my element: stories. I had a different ending in my mind, but as usual with plot and character, what I plan often doesn't count for much when the words begin to flow. Though the sailor met his demise, at least he went out with a bang (or several) and had a smile on his face to show for it. Magpie Tales 135...