Melt

I can’t sleep.

Somewhere in the murky blackness, a clock ticks. A plasticky clicking noise, signifying second upon second, minute upon minute, lost and never to return. Below that sound is the general hum of electricity from various devices in the house and the faint thrum of traffic in far-off streets. The mattress beneath me creaks with every tiny movement; the heart in my chest beats a steady rhythm.

Heat, it’s the heat that’s disturbed my slumber. Sweat prickles uncomfortably at the backs of my knees and the base of my spine. I kick the duvet to the end of the bed. Still my nightdress clings to my skin, twists around my body like a snake. I pull it over my head impatiently, throwing it to the floor beside my bed. I lie back down, wait for my skin to cool and sleep to claim me. The clock continues its interminable ticking. It seems that not even sleep will share my bed tonight. If anything, I feel warmer than before. My skin buzzes with a strange restlessness, almost as though in anticipation for something I cannot name. The more I crave sleep, the more it eludes me, teasing me from the shadowing corners of my bedroom.

In a fit of frustration, I rise from my bed and walk towards the window. My feet pad silently across the floor. I pull the curtain to one side and open the window a couple of inches. Instead of the cool air I expect, warm and damp air caresses my skin. It’s like the sky is a giant mouth, breathing its heat onto me in gentle, silent exhalations. There are no stars to be seen, heavy clouds fill the heavens and press against each other with intimacy and irritation. I hope for lightning, for a storm to be unleashed and the air to be cleansed by a few minutes of meteorological madness. But the clouds continue to hang in ominous quietude, on the brink of something that refuses to happen. The air that comes through the open window provides no cool relief, just a curiously tormenting sultriness.

Perhaps a cold drink will help. I walk through to the dark kitchen, carpet and floorboards alternating against my bare feet. The usual eerie glow greets me as I open the fridge door and grab the carton of orange juice. Without bothering to reach for a glass, I pour the liquid directly into my mouth, waiting for its chill to permeate through me. My mouth and my tongue are soothed by the cold juice. Yet, even as it slides down my throat, it grows warm and thick. It is simply not enough to counter this sweltering night, nor the restless tingling of my skin. My gaze falls on the closed door of the freezer and I start to wonder. Perhaps ice will do the trick?

After some rather aggressive thrashing of the ice-cube tray against the edge of the worktop, I have a bowl filled with ice. I pop a cube in my mouth, slowly working its unwieldy corners and edges against my tongue. It melts slowly, releasing chilled water with maddening slothfulness to trickle down my throat. My mouth is cold but the rest of me is still hot, as though there is a furnace hidden somewhere inside of me. I pick up the bowl of ice and walk to my bedroom to lie on my still warm mattress. I take another bit of ice, now starting to drip slightly in the warm room, and rub it over the pulse points of my wrists, hoping to chill the blood that seems to be burning in my veins. Water starts to slide over my hands and down my forearms as the ice cube circles gently over my skin. Eventually the cube melts between my fingertips. I take another, this time pressing it to the pulse points between ear and throat. There is something oddly pleasurable in the way the ice melts against my skin and trickles over my neck. I pick up new cube with my other hand and place it carefully in the hollow of my throat, leaving it to liquefy. A bead of cold water runs down my breastbone, warming as is traverses my body. It is the gentlest and most welcome of touches.

Still it is not enough, the flames burn just as fiercely as before. My hands are slippery with thawed ice, fingers slightly numb. I wipe them against my chest, sure that I will be unable to pluck another cube from the bowl otherwise. Unthinkingly, my hands brush against my breasts. My nipples immediately crinkle at the coldness, pulling up into rigid point. A gasp escapes my lips at the sensation, it feels deliciously good. Tentatively, I place a cold thumb against my nipple. Its chill is followed by a pulse of sensual heat that ripples through my body. I pinch the nipple between cold thumb and forefinger, rolling it softly. The pulse continues and suddenly I’m less concerned with dousing the fire than I am with stoking it. The heat has become pleasure, the flames within now writhing against the cold without. All too quickly my hand heats up, my fingers become warm. I plunge my hand back into the bowl of ice, chilling the fingers to numbness, before caressing my other nipple with delicious coldness.

It isn’t long before I take a cube betwixt thumb and forefinger and circle it over each nipple in turn. The pulse has become an insistent, demanding beat, thrumming through me like vibration through taut wire. Cold, curious fingertips find their way between my open thighs, providing seconds of tantalizing chill before being engulfed by overwhelming heat. An ice cube nudges against my clit and I recoil at the rush of sensations – cold, heat, pleasure, pain. Then the beat is back, stronger than ever, demanding and persistent. Hot and cold dance against each other as ice circles clit, water mixing with molten heat in a growing stream. The circles grow quicker, the ice moves faster, the flames peak…

There’s water everywhere. I’m covered with the meagre remains of melting ice, dripping into the mattress below me. The tormenting burn has given way to a soothing glow, the pulse that beat so insistently has calmed into quietude. I pull up the duvet to cover me once more and, with a sleepy smile, drift into sleep.