Month: June 2008

Mr. Desmond Tells His First Story

“Why?” I could barely get the word out. But having said it, the rest tumbled out on its own, “Why do this?”

He contemplated me, comfortable in the plastic courtyard chair as he was comfortable in his suit or his smile. “I met Mrs. Lovell today.” 

—

Mr. Desmond's First Story:

She was arriving home from grocery shopping. I met her at the door. “Miss Lovell, we have not met yet, but I am a great fan.” 

With an arm clutching the groceries, she turned the key and opened the door, “My husband isn’t home, you’ll need to come back after six if you wish to speak to him about his book,” Believing this ended the conversation, she reached for the handle to draw the door closed. 

“But I am not a fan of your husband, Mrs. Josephine.” 

“Then why are you here?” 

“For you.” 

…

 “Are you sure that is what you want?” My fingers tightened around her neck, cradling her throat in a grip that held her in place. 

“yes…yes…yes.” Each word a gasped whisper, a silent plea. I finally took mercy on her  and slid my grip along her neck to the back, burying fingers in hair. Tugging her head back, her gaze was forced upwards. I leaned over, lips barely finding her own, the feather kiss of a wish that moves from lips to chin, to neck like a trail of tears across naked skin. 

Leaning over her kneeling body, my teeth find the heat of her pulse and I am forced to stop, to taste this spot, teeth grazing across sensitive skin. Its more instinct then knowledge now, fingers tight against the back of her hair and teeth biting in, leaving marks that won’t soon fade, and a gasp of pain and pleasure that rings in my ears like burning need.

— 

“What makes you think any of those women are real? Maybe I just made up their names that day.” Mr. Desmond asked.

I shook my head, “No, they must be real. Otherwise you were simply making those stories up so that I would…” I fell silent and looked down at my hands.

Meeting Mr. Desmond

An old story, written from a different perspective.

— 

When people discuss the approach of dusk, it is often described in one of two days: the gradual shading in of evening, the passing of a day in a fashion that is imperceptible even while you are watching it – or, the dramatic change from light to day much like pulling a slate of sheet rock across the sky.

The darkness that fell on the small town of Jacobs was neither of these. Darkness came down like rain, a cessation of light in hazy scratches drawn across the sky, in some places pooling into tiny black lakes, and in other running in thin lines down the street like run-off from a painter’s brush. 

—

My name is Josephine.

The first time I saw Mr. Desmond, I thought it accidental.

I was holding a rose between my fingers. Its soft petals of bright red had an almost hypnotizing affect on me. The mid-afternoon breeze caused the petals to rustle and I teased them lightly with my fingertips; they felt like satin against my skin, a sweet sensation followed by a rather unexpected pain as my fingers drifted too low and caught on a sharp thorn.

Startled, I let the rose slip my fingers.

While bending over to retrieve it, I caught a glimpse, just at the edge of my vision, of a man in dark green and black. Something about him caught my interest. It wasn't his face, which most often catches my attention, nor his eyes, which are one of my great weaknesses. No, it was something in the way he held himself, a solidity of confidence as he crossed the street opposite the flower stand I stood beside. I turned towards the street to get a better look, but the swelling lunch crowd swept away all trace of him. Or … almost all trace; there was an indelible path woven through the milling people, as if people were shifting in some Jungian way around a single person.

Curious, I followed him into the crowd.

My next glimpse of him was more deliberate. He had paused at a street corner to light a cigarette. The silver of his lighter flashed in the evening sun, and the way in which he took that first drag – as if his entire focus was on that single action – stopped me in my tracks.

It gave me an opportunity to actually look at him. Dark black hair atop a face that would be considered serious in business room, but on a street-corner appeared more like concentrated intent. Not overly tall, nor noticeably short, his clothes rested comfortable on his frame. Not an easy feat  – wearing a black sports jacket hanging over dark brown slacks on a mid-summer afternoon – but one he could carried off quite well.

I stood watching the cars rush past him at the intersection; it appeared to me that he wasn’t there waiting to cross but waiting on…what? I was so absorbed in studying him, that it took me a moment to realize he was looking back at me.

Too startled to be embarrassed, I just stared back at him. I lost him a moment later in the dizzying speed of the cars flashing across the intersection. I sighed, shaking the day-dream from my head.

I could have followed him further, but I followed my hunger instead. I knew well the food served at numerous street cafes, but I took my time in browsing through their culinary offerings, I was well on my way to forgetting the intriguing stranger, when I felt a hand lightly brush my shoulder. I turned from a café menu, to find myself face to face with the man I had followed.

“Did you drop this?” He asked, holding aloft a rose I recognized as the one I had held earlier.

“That….I….” I paused to pull my thought together, “Yes, I did.”

He smiled, "May I join you for lunch?”

Ten minutes later saw us sitting at a small round table in the courtyard of the café. Other then sharing names (he shared his last, I, my first) we had yet to establish any meaningful conversation. “So…Mr. Desmond. What brings you to the small town of Jacobs? I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”

“Ah, yes.” He waved the young waitress over, glancing to her name-tag, “Malory. What a beautiful name.” The girl’s blush almost reached her eyes. “A cup of your strongest coffee please, for me. And for Josephine here…”

“Ice tea. No sugar, please.” I realized I was nervously tapping my fingers on the cool glass of the table and stilled my hand. Mr. Desmond had set the rose upon the glass surface of the table, and I distracted myself by rolling it over gently, feeling the smooth green stem between my fingers.

“I am here to meet some people. Three, in fact.” said Mr. Desmond.

“Family?”

“No.”

“Friends?”

“No…well, not exactly.’ He chuckled. “They’ve never really met me before, which would make the prospects of friendship rather difficult at the moment.”

I like to consider myself a rather sharp person, but I found myself confused, “I’m not sure I understand…”

“No, of course you don’t.” His words eased into the space my confusion had left. He raised his left hand, holding up three fingers, “Mrs. Lovell.” One finger down. “Angela Beckett,” The second finger folded in. “And Josephine.” The last finger went down. He spoke each name like he was sharing a secret with an intimate of his. I hardly knew the man, yet he acted with an assumed familiarly that left me more then a little uncomfortable. 

I gathered my wits, “But to what purpose do you want to meet…”

His long fingers lifted the rose from the table. “It’s what I do. Meeting people.” He gently draw one of the petals from the rose, resting it atop of finger like an offering.

A moment of  silence. “Why are you telling me this?”

Eyes the color of grey skies regarded me in silence. His finger tilted slightly and the petal slid clear of his finger, tumbling gracefully to rest atop my hand like an angel kiss.

“Because it is what you want.” I felt his eyes on my skin, as if the weight of his gaze was something physical, “Your capture will be the easiest, because it will be your own curiosity that drives you there.” He leaned forward, resting the rose on the mirrored surface between them. “You will be here tomorrow, and the day after, to hear each step of their seduction. Until we reach a point, the climax of the story, where you want to know,” the pause was a smile, small, controlled, “…how I take them. And you will know the price for the story.”

There was nothing left but silence for me. I was unable to speak while he carefully removed his wallet and placed several crisp bills on top of the table between the wine-glass and his untouched brandy. I wasn’t even able to watch him as he turned and left the café.

I did know the price. Worse. I feared I might be willing to pay for it.

I felt the first drop of rain. 

nocturne, by memory

I still have dark dreams.

It is late, late enough that dawn curls at the corners of the street, a promise of orange and red that threaten to spoil the perfect blanket of darkness.

It is late, and I am outside your house.

I call to you.

…

You come awake, laying silent in your bed.

A minute, two, and then you are slipping out from between the sheets, opening the front door and stepping outside.

…

Your robe slips from your shoulders.

You join the moonlight.

…

There is much I want to tell you.

I know so many new things. My teeth have only become sharper, sharp as the crease of pain in the absence of the devotion it evokes, sharp as the curved knives that fit into my hands like guilty lovers.

Much has changed, but my hunger.

My hunger is an old hunger.

…

I have no words, here.

…

We are standing, facing each other.

Waiting for sin, or salvation, or something that tastes like both.

We will wait forever, but dawn will not wait for us; it quiets all dreams.

…
……
…

My friend.

My dearest friend.

I still have dark dreams.

sunset

I've watched many sunsets, but last week I watched my first setting sun.

It was a subtle disappearing act, a splash of semicircle red that slid under the horizon with unexpected grace.

I had just finished one of the best meals I've ever had, and was sharing a drink with NE and Bear at a club next to the restaurant. We sat out back, leaning over the wooden side, smoking cloves and cigarettes. We had an unobstructed view of the sky and in the silky haze of good food glazed with excellent wine, we watched the sun dip under the water of the bay.

things not forgotten

  
 

I forget not the timbre of your voice
     soft at first
then raised, spiraling around my words
   only higher, still
       to return
as mist and sighs

I forget not the first glimpse,
   deceptively unblemished skin
      hiding the promise
   of sweetness

I forget not the way you look
      supine, or sublime
angered indifference
    at war
with beggared desire

No, I forget many things.

But you are not one of them.