Isabel and Radha have composed the modern, wintry counterpart to Ovid’s Afternoon Delight, telling the story of another sultry afternoon.
It was cold, and the noon hour had gone by.
I was huddled, limbs swaddled in the fleecy nest of the bed.
One half of the grate was open, the other closed:
the light was just as it is after a ghost story,
it flickered like the fallen embers of Prometheus,
or when shades are half drawn against summer’s light.
Such light that glows on the warm skin of modest girls
who take shy refuge in feathers and baggy wool.
Behold Adelaide comes, wrapped in slipping layers,
dusted hair tangled in her twisted scarves,
like the brilliant Halle Berry going to her bed,
one might say, or Lindsey Vonn, loved by many men.
I pulled away her layers – a pile mounting on the floor,
yet she shivered, struggled to keep the scarf around her,
in the same way as one unwilling to win;
yielding, she was effortlessly conquered.
When we stood before the hearth, blankets forgotten,
on her whole body there was never a blemish.
What shoulders! What collarbones, such as the English Patient adores!
Breasts like fawns stepping through new-fallen snow!
Such a svelte waist meeting the plane of her belly!
What hips! And, damn! Those legs! Those ankles!
Why picture each shapely form? I saw nothing lacking praise
and pressed her warmed body against mine.
Who doesn’t know how this one goes? Weary, we nestled.
May such blizzards often come for me!