From the Desk of Darling Dahlia

S ome people chew on pencils to clear their mind or focus, to ponder or to dream. Others tap their feet, or bounce a ball off a wall, or employ any number of clever psychological idiosyncrasies. My methodology, dear reader- or should I say “voyeur”? – is, like so many facets of my unique person, often a deviation from the norm insofar as technique is regarded. I traced all the shattered colors in a beam of light spread out upon the floral eggshell wall laid out before me as I rocked rhythmically upon the spear of pleasure probing me that evening. Following our quaint takeaway supper, we’d found ourselves helplessly caught up in the subtle grip of far more insatiable, sensual appetites as an inevitable consequence of the sum of silent moments, longing glances, and the growing intellectual heat lightning of some characteristically charming repartee. It started with a smirk and found us wrapped in the delirious ecstasy of the wordless bond forged in the gravity of mutual desire. What