"It's starting to feel like a normal room in here again, isn't it?" I asked her, turning to open the window behind me. Just as the glass pane is moved to the side, the crisp and eager autumn's night breeze swirls past my face, across my chest, and into the room. The papery sound of rustling, crinkled leaves comes with it and is immediately followed by something far less chilly.
It's a moan, a long and drawn-out woman's moan. It wavers and crests. It's almost a spirit's keening, a cry under the rustle and faintly accompanied by my tiny windchimes. It lasts for only a bare moment, but it's full of such longing desire and needed satisfaction. Her hunger has been deeply answered and clearly, it calls for an open-mouthed wail from a nearby windowsill and into the blackened October night.
I smile as I enjoy it. It falls into silence. Only the rustling of the dry leaves and tinkle of the chimes remain on the flowing breeze into my bedroom.
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