David Lynch does not live here anymore …
Barry lit the fire with a match, stepped back and began to comb his ash-grey hair as the small pile of logs and tinder caught, began to crackle and spit and the flames climbed up the hearth into the chimney, lighting the walls of the room and creating dark shadows within an eerie, oscillating light. The white room danced to the rhythm of the flames and he felt his mood changing. He thought he heard the music of a classical guitar but it was only the jangle of the wind chimes that hung outside, under the extended porch. Outside, where the wind was now gusting at it’s fiercest.
Celia still naked, lay on the floor, perched on their thick, woolen rug. Her long, auburn hair draped across the rug and cascaded onto the polished, larch-timber flooring. Her arms were slender and tanned and arched behind her like a trestle-table and in such a way that made her look a little awkward and uncomfortable. He noticed how her position thrust her breasts forward in a provocative manner and provided a pleasing, silhouette. Their pressed, pear-shape reflected the shimmering light from the open fire which grew relentlessly and flickered shamelessly.
This was ‘serendipity’ Barry considered, that had brought about such a moment after his cold, tense day and the endless, night-time drive through the dense, pine forest and he determined in his mind, to mine the ore from the event to the uttermost.
“Would you like a drink?” he announced suddenly, as he finally tore himself from gazing at the lengthening flames, turned sharply from the fire and walked slowly toward her.
“Yes, a Marguerita” Celia replied, a little off-hand and impatiently,