Title: Once There Were Nights In White Satin

Author: Gillian Silverlight

Distribution: My site; http://www.homestead.com/gilliansspikelair/ , anyone else, ask first.

Disclaimer: For once I don’t have to make one. The characters are mine.

Summary: While packing, a woman remembers someone important in her life

Rating: NC-17

Dedication: To Hal for being a wonderful friend.

Once There Were Nights In White Satin

‘Faded photograph, covered now with lines and creases

Tickets torn in half, memories in bits and pieces

Traces of love, long ago that didn't work out right

Traces of love.’

She was planning to move clear across the country, from Georgia to Los Angeles – The City of Angels

There was so much to do, so many things to go through, having lived her entire life in that southern state. So with the stereo playing in the background for company, she opened the next drawer, setting the empty box next to it.

There were the colored drawing pencils, the older jewel box, then underneath she found the picture and several torn ticket stubs.

Holding the picture in one hand and the tickets in the other, she sat down on the floor as the memories assaulted her. Memories as vivid as the day they happened, full of the sense of his touch, the taste of him suddenly on her lips.

It was a small picture, the only one she had. There were no folds or creases in this one, housed in its protective washed green wooden frame. His hair was black as night and looked as soft as silk flowing across skin. His face was that beautiful cream shade of so many oriental men, and the smile.. It was a smile that could melt her bones to water, a smile that hinted of things that could be done by two people in the dark on soft, scented sheets, with the mingled aromas of perfume, aftershave and body fluids.

The ticket stubs held their own special memories as well. One was for an older group that had been making a new tour. They’d had fun that night. He’d agreed to go at the last minute but it had been a wonderful time. They’d laughed and joked and teased each other, as only two people who have loved and remained friends seem to manage.

But the other ticket…

‘Things we used to share, souvenirs of days together

The ring she used to wear, pages from an old love letter

Traces of love, long ago that didn't work out right

Traces of love, with me tonight.’

It had been a magickal night.

They weren’t still dating, but had settled into a deep friendship.

He’d picked her up after work. She’d made an elaborate dinner and packed it in a lined basket, complete with crystal dinnerware and glasses for the wine.

They’d talked and laughed all the way through the stifling traffic to the amphitheater. It hadn’t taken long for the conversation to become quickly filled with double entendres and suggestion.

By the time they’d made their way through the crushing mass of cars and parked, the sky was filled with tatters of sun-stained clouds, the heat had eased only a miniscule amount, and all of the best lawn seating was gone.

Basket and blankets in hand, they headed upwards, searching for a good spot to sit, as well as see the stage that seemed a mile away by now.

Several other concertgoers slipped over and made room for them at the upper edge of the ‘lawn’. That place where the grass was actually gone but the mulch edging took over under the edge of the trees that hung over from the fence.

It was small and almost cave-like, but they spread the blanket and she handed him the candleholders and candles to light as the plates, glasses and silverware were pulled from the confines of the basket. The mingled aroma of the various dishes filled the air as she served both plates while he opened and poured the wine.

They ate as the strains of the music wafted up to and over them, some of the words as suggestive as they had been earlier, as the group sang about ‘nights in white satin’.

Somewhere between the meal, the wine, the music and the candles, he leaned over and kissed her.

It was still the same. The soft touch of his lips on hers, the giddy-making scent of his cologne combined with his own body chemistry, the feelings she’d subjugated to stay friends with him; all came together with the wine and music and magick of the evening to fill them both with a passion that spiraled ever higher with each touch, every word or glance. Anything was a fair excuse to touch the other and when the concert finally ended, they packed the things and headed for his car, knowing that more was in store for them that evening.

‘I close my eyes and say a prayer

That in his heart, he'll find a trace of love still there,

Somewhere’

They arrived back at her home where she took the debris from the meal to the kitchen and sat it on a counter.

He was right behind her, sliding his arms around her, turning her to face him, then kissed her until her knees threatened to dissolve from under her.

Moments later he led her to her bedroom and began the assault on her senses anew.

Time blurred into skin sliding over skin, mouths, tongues, hands and fingers touching caressing. Hot wetness, a sense of fullness, of back-arching, skin tingling pleasure as two voices cried out together.

She lay sated, curled in his arms, nestled into the curve of his body around her, and always in the back of her mind was the knowledge that she loved him, would eagerly spend the rest of her life with him and him alone.

It was not to be.

‘Traces of hope in the night that he'll come back and dry

These traces of tears from my eyes.’

He was from an old oriental family and as the eldest male, it was his duty to that family to marry someone of his own race, to have children and carry on the family line.

She was pale white with red hair, most definitely not of his race.

But love knows no such boundaries.

He went home that night instead of staying as they would both have preferred. True, they had talked long into the night, sharing bits and pieces of themselves, sharing the love they felt, but in the end.. he had to go home.

‘I close my eyes and say a prayer

That in his heart, he'll find a trace of love still there,

She tucked the ticket stubs carefully into the back of the picture frame, wishing she could reach out and brush back that heavy lock of silken hair from his forehead before she ran her fingers through its thick warmth.

The picture went into the box of treasured items.

They still talked. They both still cared and had remained friends. He was one of the few people she’d want to stay in touch with from 2000 miles away. Each knew the other would be there if either needed help, or comfort or solace.

But the love was friendship now, although once there had been nights in white satin………

Gillian Silverlight 7/17/02