Of Lorenz Theory & Love

The Strange Morning of Matias

6 The Strange Morning of Matias

5:41 am, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Master Bedroom

Harry and Macy tumbled just so onto the king bed's Egyptian 800 cotton threadcount sheets, drawing the other nearer in the most sensual of ways. Harry found himself once more, on top, with a glorious view of Macy's sumptuous breasts. He knew that had he not had any sense of self-control, he would've come already. Instinctively he cupped one in his hand (and eventually the other), alternately massaging and licking her peach-hued nubs, which he was secretly pleased to see grow harder under his wanting touch. Macy gasped in ecstasy, yanking his hair back with her tightly-clenched fist, as he drew a warm breath onto the nape of her neck, biting her and eliciting a slap to his ass as a physical retort. Harry instinctively thrust himself nearer to Macy's soft and moist opening, and as she guided him in, they both uttered an enraptured exhalation.

Macy had once read a human anatomy book during her sophomore year of college (was that really a decade ago?) that stated that the pain receptors in one's brain were closely intertwined with one's pleasure receptors in the same cranial region, and given the current state of things in her bedroom on the Azores, thirty-nine minutes before the vermillion-splashed sultry sunrise would appear in the picture window above the foot of her bed, she knew this to be true.

5:41 and 30 milliseconds am, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 22, Overlooking the Window of Pico No. 23 Master Bedroom

Practical grey-haired, seventy-something Matias who lived at Epicenter Pico No. 22 thank-you-very-much, was a dedicated early riser and today was no different. He strode past his nondescript carpeted living room into the unadorned yellowing linoleum kitchen, bare save for a stained-glass religious relic nailed to the room's threshold, given to him by a much-younger niece during her sojourn in Madrid for a study abroad program.

Having gathered his dried spices from a hook-locked kitchen cabinet to sell at the herbal market, he meticulously de-stemmed the roughage and laid the delicate fronds on the kitchen table, with pre-cut twine for making individually wrapped bundles he knew would charm the mainland tourists. He had noticed that his neighbor's window in No. 23 was covered, its pristine curtains quivering in particular staccato-esque tonality, but figured it must be the bidirectional wind that often hit the island at the most inconvenient of moments. Matias had more important things to worry about—his arthritis was flaring up again, and he needed the herbs to cover his discretionary living expenses, post-retirement.

However, whether because of his arthritic joints or not, Matias noticed he was unable to firmly grasp the herbs to tie them together. Finding a nearby magnifying glass in his oubliette drawer, he drew the outsized lens to his eye to view the herbs.

The dried herbs were—vibrating. Millimeters of distance varied as the plants, heretofore devoid of life, alternately jumped of their own accord—1/2 a millimeter, 1 millimeter, 2, no—three! Matias hadn't recalled exchanging his euros for Mexican jumping beans, but there was always a first time, he supposed.

Almost instinctively, his gaze shot toward his stained-glass relic, which he too noticed was oscillating of its own accord; when he placed his own weathered hand to the object and heard minute and repetitive motions, rhythmic and seemingly coming from nowhere, he seized the object, and sweeping his herbs and string into a canvas satchel, hurriedly departed for the marketplace to meet Morgana and finalize his wares there, wondering if he was finally starting to go senile, or if he had just experienced his first 3.5-level earthquake in Madalena.

5:41 am and 50 milliseconds, Madalena Village, Azores, Epicenter Pico No. 23, Master Bedroom

In the dark cocoon of the No. 23 master bedroom, the Azorian scent of clove and allspice wafted through the slightly-cracked-open window, past the pulsating curtains.

Harry repeatedly thrust himself into Macy's soft and moist opening, and as they both moaned in pleasure, neck-nipping and aligning so their toes, knees, up to their eyelashes touched and intertwined in the most naughty of ways, he repositioned Macy's legs so that they were wrapped against his well-built back. Beads of perspiration appeared on Harry and Macy's temples, and besides the jumping herbs and peculiar curtains, the ecru beach chair had shot towards the interior entranceway from the kitchen (blocking the doorway entirely), but neither noticed nor cared. Stay with me forever Harry, her subconscious powers seemed to say.

Macy felt Harry grow hot and pulsing within her, and knew this sordid ecstasy was coming to a close. Harry gave a knowing glance at Macy. I'm coming. Macy understood what the look meant; she tightened her limbs surrounding Harry, and bit the nape of his neck, bringing him over the edge as he exploded his essence into her.