Let us cheat.

There was a stride in his walk.
Like distantly measured piano scales, that get connected to a set strings, same as the acoustics, the longer one, a pitch one octave lower than the shorter.
Like many guitars at one time.The same string played profusely over in a span of time the fingers cannot match.
The inclusion of some what organized distortion, in one instrument.
Usually he almost cruised the land like a road roller, flattening all the muck.
But today he'd hear the clink of her earring, a happy shriek of laughter in wild candor.
Mister Wrungwall was ready to feel a bachelor.

He thought, quite thoughtfully, about Missus Wrungwall, usually he'd be home on all weekdays, peeping in, through the kitchen door.
Then cruise to the sofa, and seat himself while he forced himself to watch news before dinner was served.
On Sundays, he did that four times a day.
Being a dad and working in a job really left no time for anything but a warm cuddle before bed time.
Sometimes they'd talk about the news and religion.
She was intelligent, strikingly so.

But that lucid smoky fragrance of burnt cloves and the black grease smudged across her tiny cat eyes.
No paint or anything.Sometimes her sweet minty saliva glistening on her lips with a tinge of grape lip balm turning the peach a tasty pink.
A pout in the stairway while you hug her close and then hold hands, while you slip your hands into hers and grip it tight.

Missus Wrungwall usually had her head turned to him, smiling while she called out to him over the phone, he supposed, while they decided who'd be home to feed weetalkid, the dog.
And then they'd grab a shower and sit together each poring over their books and research to grow.
To buy finer drapes at the market.
They walked apart and smiled and he chose blue curtains and she'd chosen red.
They came back and the dog had run off behind a bitch and killed itself.
Everything seemed downhill for a while, she said, she was in mourning.Wow, dogs, got funerals?
No evidence, either.No dead body!
Later at night she'd demand foot massages and wild kisses.
Why was there no mourning anymore, its the aversion to sports in women that creates this, their sudden hatred for physical activity.
Then its about chess playing and thoughts.Hmmpf.

He walked out of his cabin for the day, in a stride, not a cruise, mind you.
It was early.
She would always tease him while she made him wait outside her door.He thought.
While he picked her up as she walked straight into his arms.
Then they'd get drunk and leave the apartment as her undone hair fell over her forehead through the tight bun.
Today he was to meet her at the old fashioned bar, they were going to laugh like young lover's gone wild, as she occasionally brushed her hand against his and she pulled a strand or two when he didn't return her mischievous smile.
He never complained, as long as he saw her earring dangle across the silhouette of her neck.
And her lips lap up some liquor, she talked like an excited bird that flew a pitch higher.
And then she'd drain his glass while he was looking away, wondering.

Wondering, Missus Wrungwall and he were sociable, responsible people.
They always left a party or room unlike the hazy image in people's drunk heads, of them, those that maimed public image.
"Tch, tch", he would imagine her say, as they looked upon social mishaps.
And as his thoughts flew to the monotony of daily life and everything that caught up after courtship was over.

The men, usually discussed this hours on end at the golf club.
The long interim between courtship and death.
Marriage.
Commitment, he could hear them echo as they all laughed it off, like a woman would about her fears of looking like a hag.

Though all of it suddenly vaporized as he took a dip into the aura of womanly splendor that surrounded him.
It was her, she was back from the cloak room.
She said, so.
He would agree.
They then talked about the juicy pork that lay on their plates.And innuendos made their head's dizzy, much over rated by the one's unfeeling.
She tossed her hair back as she caught an oaf looking in her way.She just smiled as her lips parted and a glint of sparkling white shone, she clutched his thigh and he placed his hand on hers.

Missus Wrungwall and he usually held hands, maybe.
Thighs and hands on thighs in public were off limits.

As she struggled to fork a green pea off her plate.
He saw her gobble it like a melon and still it missed the curve of depth of her mouth and slid down her v - necked silk blouse.
Plop, he thought he could hear.

The Missus usually ate with acumen of a business personality.
No it really wasn't the snob component.
It was manners.

And as they left the tiny old fashioned bar.
After they had lapped up juices enough to make a dizzy.
He slowly held her waist and she complied as she effortlessly adjusted her gait to his arm around her hips.
And they strolled burying their feet into the silver sand as the moon peeped out to them.
The stealthy moon, he thought.
Wonder if it implied to mock him at this stealthy outing.
And as he was thinking.
She pulled his wrist and then ran over the sand, till she could drop down and be a silver sand queen.

Missus Wrungwall would normally be itchy by sand in her office socks neatly covered by women boots.
Or sandals or those hundred names for shoes that they used.

And as she tumbled over her flowing skirt, that had slits up to the knee.
He helped her up as she pulled him over.
They both lay covered in sand, with the mocking moon.

And slowly she spoke.
"Darling", she squealed.

Suddenly it reminded him of Missus Wrungwall and he couldn't help but smile, a toothy smile.

And as she pulled over to his side and kissed him under moonlight.
He gasped for breath.
And sucked hers to live on.

And they got up, wrapped up in each other's arms they walked toward Mister Wrungwall's now empty apartment.
He entered first, quickly.
She next.
He'd already walked to the kitchen and turned the lights on.
And pulled the curtains, it was late and people peep, he thought.
She drew the upper curtains open, and put out the lights.
And slowly he knew what came next.

The moon seemed distant and the smell of wild weed growing across the shore suddenly was distant too.
He smelt sweat and the faintness of feminine perfume.
And felt moist saliva tingle his skin.


The drapes of the late evening were suddenly put out by the thoughtful government that switched off street lights at nights and left it on all of early morning.
Suddenly it was calm and silent.
Like the peace after acceptance of death of a loved one.
There was fervor of love and candles.

The bathroom latch clicked and he turned toward it, and Missus Wrungwall walked over to his bed.
The sheets were uneven and more creased than they usually are.
And as she pulled him close and he buried his face into her brevity.
He thought of his mother and her comforting odor that made life seem right.
She kissed his forehead, as she always did, on monday mornings.
It was almost time to leave bed and then home for work.

And as he swallowed his spit, he thought of life without Missus Wrungwall.
He swallowed some more spit.
And then was none to swallow.
So he yelped a little woof and she suddenly emerged from behind the rosewood wardrobe.
She came over and held him close.
And he held her.

It was funny how Missus Wrungwall could become her.
The her.
The her, in every man's life.
She was his her.