[ CW ] [ WP ] Write a love story from the point of view of one of the people involved , in the stream of consciousness style .

It isn ’ t much, anyway, our affair -- not really worth the parsing and rehashing I ’ ve subjected it to in any case, although that ’ s the way of things. She ’ s fiddling with her hair again. That little curl by the temple, it ’ s mesmerizingly horrid, or else horridly mesmerizing, one or the other. Sylvia is that way. Three weeks now gone like this, and I just can ’ t get the image of her legs out of my mind -- such a coquettish bastard revealed at last. Well maybe it isn ’ t as awful as all that; just an image I can ’ t shake: Sylvia in the rectory, legs draped over the arm of the seafoam loveseat and shining in the sun; the octagonal window behind her, looking out over a parterre, sunlight streaming the rapture; Sylvia in her pencil skirt and those shapely legs just shining like alchemy. It ’ s blasphemous, all of it. Ten Hail-Marys and five Our-Fathers. 
 
 Dear Jesus who art hanged upon the wall right there why can I not shake this woman? Well nevermind it -- isn ’ t anything to fear, just another trial. Another repentance. Tell her to reconcile with the husband. Contract before God and all. Tell her that brooch isn ’ t gaudy; not in the slightest, it ’ s dazzling, twinkling like a prophecy -- Zechariah ’ s brass mountains under a taut blouse. And what does it all mean? The legs, the sun, the clerical collar cinching up like a noose, the brooch, the twinkling, the allure of this woman -- God, help me, this Woman! One would burn Paris for a moment of candor. 
 
 That ’ s it, though, it ’ s over: shake hands; linger; that silly curl. Whose temple is she? Yes well, see you next week when God-willing the sun and Sylvia are clad in gray, nebulous and impenetrable as the sea and still as rock. Cold, unyielding -- no, not like that, boring perhaps. Staid. Oh I wish she had. Fill this house of judgement with something worth the effort. Opprobrium, thy name is Sylvia! Now throw yourself upon the stone and weep. Choices, o foolish mortal, and yours are made. The bed is tucked; the lights gutter; crickets sing unashamed in the night and your thoughts turn ever backward to her: that shining whirlpool of sin. Bare legs in the sunlight. You would burn it all wouldn ’ t you? All of it. All for Sylvia, and never look back.
