...the lady danced around me like a nymph, she held a gift behind her back. I smiled, but the underlying tone for me was off. She was too happy with it. The bit of self-satisfaction put me at odds. Anyone happy with themselves is never to be trusted. As much as I loved her - deeply, fully as I loved her - she held the red wrapped package and danced about in her own way, "Why are you so happy?"
"Why aren't you? You are never happy." She was not wrong. I got tired of the game and crossed my arms. My tan pea coat warming with the change, "I'm happy when I need to be."
"Hmpf." She uncrossed my arms and stood on her tip toes. She knew the effect. Her light green eyes sparkled in mischief underneath her light red hair. It fell in long curls around the frame of her brow. She gave me the demure smile. It was an act of deferment, but it was anything but. She could ask anything of me with that smile. It was my stupid weakness. She was my stupid weakness.
She led me back into the house. The kitchen was lit with candles and sprigs of evergreen framing them. Squash and chestnut soup was lightly roiling over a chafing dish. All were a contrast against the dark brick wall. The epitome of picturesque: what with this part of the house framed by wild ivy and potted willows.
The kitchen was warm, but not overly so. The dampness of the cool rain this morning would see to that for the season. The smell of beef roast from the oven made the heart feel warmer than it should.
We sat and she still had the smirk on her face. She placed the red papered gift in between us.
"I don't want to open it." She frowned, "You know you have to." I tried to stare through her, into her - but her will was a wall. It's presence was foreboding. I took a deep breath and frowned in resignation.
She clapped like a child as I reached for it. It felt small, but heavy.
"I hope you'll like it." I tore at the paper and I held a small druggist's bottle. It was dark brown glass and fit in my palm. The cork stopper looked as if iodine soaked it through. I felt uneasy as I placed in front of me and stared at her.
Her smile disappeared and she sat upright. The air grew cooler, "Drink it. It's poison." I knew it was. I mean, I knew it was going to be when we took our walk. I knew it when I awoke this morning. It was poison and I did not doubt her for a second.
She stared at the bottle with me. "It's the world in a bottle." Meaning that it needed to end. We needed to stop existing. She held out her glass and ask for the first serving. I uncorked it and drew the two glasses. She held it up to her mouth and stared at me in a seriousness I would never have seen otherwise.
"I cannot live without you, Leo." In some ways, this was resignation. I couldn't live without this, without her. I never could. I drank it quickly.
The world swam quickly and the awful, dreadful weight of impending dark swept through me. It felt like going through a tunnel that was quickly getting smaller at the end. The pain of the body convulsing as it tried to fight the damn fool thing the brain did...it mustered what it could to fight. The larger muscles, the legs and the arms, were gripped in pain as they tensed beyond measure. I fell from the chair.
Her giggle came at me somewhere in the fog of blurred dark and I knew instantly she did not drink with me. I could hear her glass calmly tap against the kitchen table before there was no more....
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
...it was, in itself, entirely redundant...
writing taglines for a comedian friend I don't know. it was either that or a list of word association that ticked through my mind as I couldn't sleep tonight. last night. wrote it down I told myself of the book that was hers, she wrote her initials in bold red. across the front plate, it led to the middle of the book. in red sharpie just to piss on my expectations. tonight. yes.
vomit. that's redundant.
laughter. ditto.
gnashing of teeth. completely unnecessary.
that's probably why I kicked the science fiction actor in the back, while they were waiting in line at the restroom of the comic convention. why was he here anyway? he hadn't acted in years.
i did respect him though.
i owed him that much. respect and a kick.
after he wiped away god knows what he smiled amicably and told me that i was a great patriot.
you said it mister.
It was then that he shifted in the cab. The sway of the road was indicative of the country. The rhythmic texture of cobblestone made way for the rutted mud. He wouldn't have made the journey, if not for the grey evening and the wash of rain, as this but an afterthought to his singular thought. This wholly farcical affair in Welsea was to draw to a close, and Hulbert Frees was to be the artist and agent of its death.
He pulled down his cap, a light mist collecting along his clothes. The driver must be soaked through.
Hulbert stared out into sea, but couldn't make out the difference in grey. The country was unimaginably flat. The grass cliffs contrasted like a torn page. The cab's lamp let out - the oil had grown to lively in the glass and put out the wick. There was no rest. He could only put his arms, stretched to across the entire length of the couch, upon each door to right himself. It took all of his concentration not to extinguish his gullet. "Redundant indeed."
He wondered why the horses did not break their legs in this ruddy soup.
vomit. that's redundant.
laughter. ditto.
gnashing of teeth. completely unnecessary.
that's probably why I kicked the science fiction actor in the back, while they were waiting in line at the restroom of the comic convention. why was he here anyway? he hadn't acted in years.
i did respect him though.
i owed him that much. respect and a kick.
after he wiped away god knows what he smiled amicably and told me that i was a great patriot.
you said it mister.
It was then that he shifted in the cab. The sway of the road was indicative of the country. The rhythmic texture of cobblestone made way for the rutted mud. He wouldn't have made the journey, if not for the grey evening and the wash of rain, as this but an afterthought to his singular thought. This wholly farcical affair in Welsea was to draw to a close, and Hulbert Frees was to be the artist and agent of its death.
He pulled down his cap, a light mist collecting along his clothes. The driver must be soaked through.
Hulbert stared out into sea, but couldn't make out the difference in grey. The country was unimaginably flat. The grass cliffs contrasted like a torn page. The cab's lamp let out - the oil had grown to lively in the glass and put out the wick. There was no rest. He could only put his arms, stretched to across the entire length of the couch, upon each door to right himself. It took all of his concentration not to extinguish his gullet. "Redundant indeed."
He wondered why the horses did not break their legs in this ruddy soup.
Monday, October 8, 2012
...she will...that's what she did...
...she looked at me. It was an even stare, not typical for her. She didn't slouch. Her hair was pulled behind her ears, which she barely ever did (on account they were large, her ears, but I loved them because of it). Johnny Griffin was on the overhead, pumping out 'Latin Quarter'. Her grey eyes were fixed, her lids pulled back just enough to command attention. She had it. She always had my attention. Lahna's name is Congonese for 'peace'.
"I have a secret."
Inwardly my heart dropped a few paces. In my 38-years I knew what to expect from that statement. It was hardly ever good. It meant, for a 24-year-old, she was going to do something brash. She accepted a job 3000 miles away. She got a tattoo, which always look stupid on a hot chick. It's like taking a Sharpie to Greek statuary. She quit her job. She's gay. She's secretly in love with me. Now I'm getting stupid. It must have been the third absinthe shot.
I returned her stare with a cock of my left eyebrow. I'd like to think it says, "What shit is this now?"
"Is that it? You're not going to ask?" She smiled with a smile that was flash paper. It blew up in my face like uranium. In my old man's heart of hearts, I hope that smile was just for me. (Oh, I know it wasn't.)
"What do you want me to say. I know how this goes."
She frowned and looked out the windows as she sipped at her Blue Hawaiian. "You're boring." Now there's a phrase no hot-blooded middle-aged asshole wants to hear. I was getting hot under the sports jacket. A string of sweat washed along my spine.
"You met someone." Her facade crumbled. I hate having little victories. She stopped sipping and slowly maneuvered her glass to the coaster like she had to aim. I knew quickly that she wanted to get my take. She wanted a rise (or not) out of me. For a half-second her eyes got just a tinge of water. "Oh my God," I said to myself. Lahna actually cared enough about 'this' - although 'this' was nothing more than a year's long tract of interest.
She finally nodded, almost as if she were perturbed, "His name is Mark." She didn't return her gaze for most of the rest of the night. It didn't dawn on me until we were leaving. To tell the truth, I don't remember anything else we discussed. I was in a stupor up until I was helping her with her coat. Her light brown hair tumbled around her collar as I helped her into the white wool frock.
She was being kind when she finally made contact with me again and smiled kindly, so sweetly. It was a look of a young lady who made a decision. I didn't feel a thing. I was numbed to the core. As we separated at the foyer, she gave me the old look. The bright look. My heart came back for a second.
"See ya."
And, I haven't had my heart since.
"I have a secret."
Inwardly my heart dropped a few paces. In my 38-years I knew what to expect from that statement. It was hardly ever good. It meant, for a 24-year-old, she was going to do something brash. She accepted a job 3000 miles away. She got a tattoo, which always look stupid on a hot chick. It's like taking a Sharpie to Greek statuary. She quit her job. She's gay. She's secretly in love with me. Now I'm getting stupid. It must have been the third absinthe shot.
I returned her stare with a cock of my left eyebrow. I'd like to think it says, "What shit is this now?"
"Is that it? You're not going to ask?" She smiled with a smile that was flash paper. It blew up in my face like uranium. In my old man's heart of hearts, I hope that smile was just for me. (Oh, I know it wasn't.)
"What do you want me to say. I know how this goes."
She frowned and looked out the windows as she sipped at her Blue Hawaiian. "You're boring." Now there's a phrase no hot-blooded middle-aged asshole wants to hear. I was getting hot under the sports jacket. A string of sweat washed along my spine.
"You met someone." Her facade crumbled. I hate having little victories. She stopped sipping and slowly maneuvered her glass to the coaster like she had to aim. I knew quickly that she wanted to get my take. She wanted a rise (or not) out of me. For a half-second her eyes got just a tinge of water. "Oh my God," I said to myself. Lahna actually cared enough about 'this' - although 'this' was nothing more than a year's long tract of interest.
She finally nodded, almost as if she were perturbed, "His name is Mark." She didn't return her gaze for most of the rest of the night. It didn't dawn on me until we were leaving. To tell the truth, I don't remember anything else we discussed. I was in a stupor up until I was helping her with her coat. Her light brown hair tumbled around her collar as I helped her into the white wool frock.
She was being kind when she finally made contact with me again and smiled kindly, so sweetly. It was a look of a young lady who made a decision. I didn't feel a thing. I was numbed to the core. As we separated at the foyer, she gave me the old look. The bright look. My heart came back for a second.
"See ya."
And, I haven't had my heart since.
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