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| The Rain Shrouds
Posted: 12/3/2007 3:00:23 AM | A piece for a lass who wanted something less then she was afraid to give.
The Bus Stop
"Davis?"
I turned, the motion sloshing rain from my
fidora down my collar. It was Ms. Selena. From
accounting. She was carrying several large parcels,
thanksgiving and Halloween ornaments mostly, trying to
keep a grip on her umbrella in the wind.
"Yes." I said, trying not to cringe as the water
trickled down the nape of my neck. The wind tugged at
her packages, and she nearly lost a grip on the
umbrella. I reached forward, but the wind subsided
and she managed to keep everything in order.
"Yes..." I said again, trying to remember her first
name. "Ms... Ms. Selena? Upstairs--in Accounting?"
"Yes." She smiled, making a face as the wind tugged
at her umbrella again. "Laura. Please--oh! This
wind!"
She fought with the umbrella. One of the
packages flipped up, spilling a wreath
to the ground. I picked it up.
"Oh--F-f..." she said, as a parcel, its paper sodden
now with rain, ripped.
She lowered it to the ground to stop everything
falling out. I leaned down and gathered it up, using
the wreath to press it against my chest.
"Thankyou." She said.
It was an awkward moment. She seemed about to burst
with tears or smiles, her face changing rapidly. She
clamped her jaw and nodded down the street.
"My car is just down there--would you mind giving me a
hand?"
A car was parked way down, about 2 blocks. Approaching was the
bus I had already waited 20 minutes for.
"I uh...sure. Sure. Of course." I said, turning
away from the wind and rain, trying to cover my
thoughts. "Here, let me hold that other box too."
She lifted it from under her arm gratefully. It was
suprisingly heavy. I glanced at the label as we
started walking. 'Pierre La Pointe, Imports and
Finds'. It felt like lead weights.
The bus passed us, sending sheets of water onto the
sidewalk, missing her completely but managing to catch
me across the legs. She hadn't noticed, tucked in as
she was under her umbrella. She was wearing red
spikes, which I've never liked. Spike shoes that is,
but for some reason, in the rain, her legs glistening,
and my mood suddenly turned foul, I found myself
caught with the beauty of her calves, the black fish-net
stalkings, the perky, hard lines of the red shoes.
Her car ork-orked as we approached and
amidst a jangle of keys she popped the trunk and
dumped her packages in. She grabbed the wreath and
the sodden paper bag and squeezed it in with the other
things. There was a coil of silky red rope in the
trunk. The kind used as jibbing rope on sail-boats.
I began to put the heavy box in as well.
"Oh--no." She said. "I want that in the front, on
the front seat where I can keep an eye on it."
I shrugged, squinting as the rain pelted my face. | |
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| The Rain Shrouds
Posted: 12/3/2007 9:59:05 AM | The Car Ride
She stepped gingerly over a puddle, opened the passenger
door, and I maneuvered the heavy
box in.
"Feels like lead weights." I said, trying to grin.
The rain and cold wind twisted the expression as if
I'd eaten lemon.
"Just some bricks." She said, shoving the door
closed.
The action was a bit strong, almost like she was
slamming the door on our rapore. I tightened
instinctively, and set my face against a slight
stirring of anger.
"Well, good luck with all that." I said, moving away,
back to the sidewalk. It was a dumb
thing to say. I didn't care.
"Th-thankyou for the help." She said, stepping to the
front of her car, about to go around.
"No problem." I said, nodding slightly, pulling my
fidora down, and walking away.
Half a block away from the bus-stop I turned to see if
another bus was coming. Ms. Selena--Laura--was on the sidewalk,
walking towards me. Her car was emitting feeble yellow eye-blinks.
I stopped, unsure what to do. The romantic in me fleetingly envisioned
her drawing near, breathlessly asking if I'd like to go for dinner. The
practical creature in me, already jaded by having to
help her and feeling like she hadn't been very
grateful, squinted and refused to wave or walk towards
her.
She waved. I turned to see if there was anyone else.
I was alone.
I walked towards her and as we drew close the wind
picked up, kicking up her long coat and again exposing
those rediculously sexy shoes. She had left the
umbrella in the car: she was thoroughly drenched. Her
makeup was running slightly, smudged around her eyes.
I thought of the band Kiss from the 80's.
"My car," she said, "won't start. Are you any good
with them?"
"Not really."
Which was true, and I was fed up with her, the rain,
and late to get home. But her face fell like I'd
dropped coffee on her paperwork. She was startled, even.
My heart lept a beat and I felt like a complete ass.
"Well, I know how to change the oil..." I tried to
laugh but it was awkward. "You might have a wet cable
with all this rain. Have you got a flashlight in your
car? A dry rag?"
She bit her lower lip, looked past me, probably at the
phone-booth on the next corner. "Yes, but I don't
want to bother you. You've already been helpful.
And... you missed your bus. I'm so sorry."
Her acknowledgment of my bus was all I needed to hear.
Suddenly I didn't need to get home, the rain was just
a mild nuisance and she was just the beleaguered, pretty,
office girl from upstairs needing a hand.
I laughed with more sincerity and said "No problem,
come on, lets see what we can do."
Her emergency flashlight was long-since drained of
power... but fortunately her car was parked in front
of a shop-window that was well lit and allowed me to
see that the rain had in fact been soaking her somewhat loose
battery cables. A bunch of leaves caught under the hood had
been channeling the water into the engine. I cleaned
the mess out and dried the cables carefully. My last
bus for the night went by, trying hard to splash more
water into the car. I blocked it with my back,
cursing at the driver, the rain, and just about
anything I could think of.
"Try it now." I shouted through the rain and wind.
She hadn't heard me--her window was closed and from
what I could see she was huddled into her coat trying
to keep warm. I knocked on the glass, motioning for
her to start the engine.
It took, sluggishly, on the second start. I gave her the thumbs up
and closed the bonnet. She rolled down her window.
"Can I offer you a ride home?" Even with the smudged
makeup, her relief and happiness that the car was
working made her look very pretty.
"Sure." I grinned.
"You'll have to get in the back--I think the box with
the bricks is too wet to pick up. Do you mind?"
"No, of course not." I said, and she got out of the
car quickly to let me in behind her.
It was nice to be suddenly out of the elements, to
feel a tiny current of heat in the air from the
whirring heater fans. The rain was drumming hard
on the car and it felt like we were completely alone.
She was dabbing a handkerchief across her eyes.
"God, I must look terrible." She said with a little,
forced laugh. She whipped out a mirror and fussed for
a bit.
I moved over, to the middle of the seat. It had felt
awkward sitting right behind her. I watched her clean
her face up. Her eye caught me in her pocket-mirror
and she smiled shyly.
"Really--thankyou so much for your help. I--I was
going to offer you a ride before but you seemed so
stoic and...and strong in the wind and rain, like it
didn't bother you and then I just felt foolish...but I
should have offered you a ride, I know I should of."
"It's ok," I said, smiling. "I live in the west
end--over by Montgomery Drive... do you know where
that is?"
"Of course--" she paused and craned her head around
slightly, "--I live just off Montgomery, on Reginald."
"Really? That's just 2 blocks from me." I said,
startled, then smiled again.
She turned back to her makeup, almost drawing into the
upturned collar of her coat and I felt the mood
suddenly go cold. I looked out the window, confused.
She packed everything away, then pulled out and
started driving slowly. The rain was really beating
down and she seemed very small behind the wheel,
clutching it with two fists and peering over it like a
child might a Principles desk. Her collar had
flopped down, revealing neck muscles taught with
strain. Their curves reminded me of a gothic
cathedral arch in Rome and it took me back to that
vacation, Cathy and I sitting at a cafe watching the
people going by, the gorgeous buildings, the
cobble-stone street, the excellant wine...
"What are you thinking about?" Laura asked. Her eyes framed
in the mirror were dark and sharp, like a sparrows.
It felt odd to talk to her eyes in the rear-view
mirror when she was actually in a different position.
I glanced at her neck inadvertantly, then back to her
eyes.
"A vacation. Rome. Many years ago."
"Rome? That sounds lovely. I bet it was lovely."
She said. She was still glancing at me in the mirror,
but her eyes seemed to be staring at something else,
musing, hopeful.
"It was. Until someone stole our wallets and
passports. We spent most of our time at the police
station getting everything figured out."
"Oh. Your wife?"
"Eh?"
"You said we. We had lost our passports."
"Oh--oh, no... not my wife. The woman I lived with at
the time."
"You're not married?" She asked, fixing her eyes on
the road again.
I glanced out the window, but felt her eyes dart to
the mirror. It was an odd question... a bit personal.
I thought over what had occured the past hour or so.
Was Laura attracted to me? Was I attracted to her?
"No, I'm not married. You?"
"Yes." She said. Her hands were whiter on the
steering wheel. "And no. Seperated."
"Oh. Sorry to hear that." I said, looking at her in
the mirror again.
She rolled her eyes.
"Oh, don't be sorry. He was an alcoholic. The
marriage only lasted a year. That was a year ago...
but he won't sign the divorce papers."
I nodded, unsure what to say, watching the mirror but
her eyes were fixed on the road. I glanced again at
her neck. I wondered what it would smell like. Then
shook my head. It had been too long. Like her, I
fixed my eyes out the window.
Several blocks later she motioned with her head.
"That's my street, Reginald."
"Oh--great. I'm 2 more up on Lintner. Number 57,
half-way down. Li--"
"Would you like to have dinner?" She asked, cutting
me off.
She seemed suddenly to have shrunken even further into
her coat, almost as if she was more surprised to have
said it then I was to have heard it.
"Well I... I--"
"I've got some left-overs. God, that sounds horrible,
doesn't it? It's just you've been very kind, helping
me with the car and I...I..." She stopped, her hands
twisted on the steering wheel. "I can't believe I
just asked you for dinner."
Then she laughed, her head going forward a bit. Some
hair, still wet, caught on her face and she flipped it
back. She looked into the mirror with a strange
expression. Kind of embarrassed, but kind of like a
child might who'd been caught in the cookie jar.
I smiled back, awkwardly.
"Left-overs sound great. But I am quite wet. Another
time?"
"Yes, of course." She replied, darting a quick look
at me then staring fixedly again at the road.
I had been an ass. Again. Why had I said no? When
was the last time I had been invited for dinner? Even
left-overs? We were nearly even with her street.
"Look, I'd love to come for dinner." I said quickly.
"I'm sorry--I'm just a bit out-of-sorts with the
weather and everything."
"Are you sure?" She said, somewhat skeptically.
"Yes, yes--absolutely. I--I havn't eaten a proper
meal in a long time. Bachelor food you know..."
"Good." She said, slowing down and turning onto her
street. | |
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| The Rain Shrouds
Posted: 12/4/2007 6:20:11 AM | You haven't lost your touch Sweetie. Thanks for the story.
then.... | |
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| The Rain Shrouds
Posted: 12/4/2007 10:01:05 AM | Thank-you Alibabble. It's good to 'see' you again.
Then... the lazy Savage needs to get off his twigs and leaf-covered buttskinski's and write more on this piece. It's outside of my normal terrain, being done in a stilted Hemmingway style, minimalistic, which I thought suited the plight of the characters. Probably doesn't make for the best reading though  | |
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| The Rain Shrouds
Posted: 12/4/2007 6:10:59 PM | I liked it. Each line grabs attention.
Red spikes and fishnets, huh? | |
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| The Rain Shrouds
Posted: 12/4/2007 7:13:31 PM |
Red spikes and fishnets, huh?
Ha! Davis is having issues with that. I don't. Whenever I see high-heel shoes on women I think they look like they're feet are in jail. Tweety-bird jail. I like a girl who wear stuff which is practical... like a good loafer or running shoe. They're harder to catch. | |
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| The Rain Shrouds
Posted: 12/5/2007 4:21:48 AM | The Apartment
She pulled up to a pretty Victorian style home, it's
front split into two doors. In the driveway was a
large pickup truck, a pale white color, much abused,
with a ladder sticking out the back. A small red flag
hung from its end looking more like a bloodied rat
tail.
"My neighbor." She said, noticing me looking at the
truck. "He isn't often here."
She looked pensive, almost angry and I gathered that
she and her neighbor didn't get along.
"You sublet?" I asked.
"No, I bought my half but the woman who owns the other
half rents it out. She hasn't taken care of her side.
The rent is cheap, apparently, but that isn't enough
to keep anyone long."
She parked as far away from the truck as she could in
the small lot. The rain had let up a bit but it was
colder, and windier. The sudden chill from our wet
clothes lent an air of urgency as we gathered up her things
and dumped them into her cramped foyer.
"Would you mind bringing in the box?" She said,
pressing a grocery bag into my hand. "Just wrap that
around to keep it all together."
"Sure." I replied, not particularly wanting to go
back out into the cold. For bricks. I thought of my
cozy apartment, the space heater next to the arm-chair
where I could sit and watch the tv or, often as not,
the fish tank beside it.
She had parked her car close to an edging of thorny
bushes on the passenger side. I squeezed into the
space, feeling the scrape and claw of the thorns
against my coat, then a branch managed to get under
the fedora and try to tug it off. It brought on a
flash of anger and I wanted to snap the branches or,
better yet, hack the damned plant down. Who would
plant a thorn bush beside a parking lot? Probably
someone who wouldn't think that one day a woman with
bricks on her front seat would park right into the
thicket in order to avoid a beaten up pickup.
I yanked the door open and heaved the box out. I
didn't bother putting the bag over it. The cardboard
was mostly soaked through and bulging with the weight.
I wrapped my hands around it as if it were a large,
heavy egg. The thorns had another go at my
clothes and fedora.
Back in her foyer she motioned to put the package on
top of a old parsons seat.
"Where's the bag--you didn't wrap it up?" She asked,
throwing some flyers on the seat to protect it.
"Didn't seem to need it." I said, putting the box
down. The side had cracked and I noticed at the same
time a thin trail of blood across my hand from the
thorns.
She looked at the box and bit her lip, turned away and
gestured to the coat rack. Under it were more flyers
scattered about. She disappeared into the house while
I removed my sodden coat and fedora. I sat beside the
bricks, taking my shoes off and licked the blood from
my hand. I was wearing a white shirt. With my luck I
would smear blood all over it. The scratch was
shallow and had already stopped bleeding.
She came back up the passage, carrying a towel and
some socks.
"My ex's," she said, holding the pair of socks up.
They were gray, thin, the type worn in expensive,
close-fitting shoes. "I don't think he'll mind."
I slipped them on, waiting first for her to disappear
again into the house--not wanting her to see my ugly
pale feet. They were bonier than most, something the
kids used to laugh at in the locker room at high
school, and I'd always had a thing about keeping them
hidden. They were red and blotchy with the wet and
cold and had little clumps of sock-lint plastered to
them. I began to have serious doubts about having
come for dinner. My shirt was soaked through and even
my crotch, I now noticed, was damp and cold.
"Come on in to the living room." She said from
somewhere inside the house.
I toweled my hair a bit as I made it down the dark
hall to a room at its end, feebly lit with a lamp in
one corner. It joined the kitchen and she was in
there rummaging about. I stepped in, watching her for
a moment. The room was a disaster with dishes piled
up, piles of bills and paper-work on the table and
clutter everywhere.
"Oh--" she said, somewhat surprised and a little
embarrassed "--please have a seat in the living room.
I'll whip up some tea. Do you like tea?"
"I'd prefer coffee." I said, not really liking tea.
"But if you're making tea, that would be nice."
"Earl gray?" She asked, holding up a tin which was
perched on top of some newspapers which were on the
counter-top.
"Uhm...sure." I hoped it wasn't one of those teas
that smelt like they would taste like a piece of
perfumed fur.
I tried to find a spot where I could watch her in
the kitchen, but the best I could find was the
corner of a ancient green couch, near the lamp.
All I could see of the kitchen was the littered
table and occasionally her elbow. Under the lamp were
some old Omni's and National Geographic's. I pulled one
out and flipped through it. Even seeing the pictures
was difficult in the lamp-light. I wondered if they
made 10 watt light bulbs.
She brought the tea in, on a wooden tray but stood
somewhat confused as the living room table was small
and at the other end of the couch. She put the tray
on it.
"Why don't you sit over here where you can drink your
tea?" She asked, fluffing up the pillows there.
I hadn't really wanted to move. She sat on the edge
of an old arm-chair, tinkering with the tea things as
I sat down again. For some reason I was embarrassed
to have the magazine. I wouldn't be able to read it
now so I placed it on the couch beside me.
"That stuff is old." She said nodding at the National
Geographic.
"Yes, from two years ago." I smiled. "Behind in your
subscription?"
"They were Steve's." She replied, tinkling the spoon
on a sugar bowl. "Sugar and milk?"
"No--no thank-you." The aroma of the tea was filling
the air. It smelt like cheap cologne. I accepted the
mug gratefully--at least it was warm.
"My lawyer said for me to leave his things alone. I
took pictures too, in case things got ugly in court.
That was 10 months ago though and I haven't heard a
thing. I guess I should throw all that junk out."
I nodded, looking around the room. I wondered just
what and wasn't considered junk... the entire place
seemed full of half-used or forgotten relics.
The microwave dinged and she got up.
"Do you like chicken?" She said, then laughed. "I
guess I should have asked you that before."
"Yes, chicken is great." I said, holding the mug
against my belly, then, as she turned and was walking
into the kitchen, sliding it down a bit to warm my groin.
"Chicken cacciatore...normally I'd make up some pasta.
Do you want pasta? Or I could just serve it with
some bread. I get bread from the bakery down on
Montgomery."
"Josi's?"
"Yes--she's great! You know Josi's bakery too? Isn't
that funny."
"Small world. Can I give you a hand in there?"
She was gathering dishes and cutlery.
"No, sit and relax. I'll just be a minute."
I took a sip of the tea. It was like sucking on a
sock with too much fabric softener in it. Revolting.
I put it back between my legs.
"Put the tea things on the floor, if you don't
mind--we'll eat in there." She said.
I hunched forward, trying to keep the tea between my
legs and it spilled, of course, right into my crotch.
She was making sounds as if about to come right in so
I hastily put the tea things on the floor and
straightened up, lifting the mug up and slurping a
bit. My crotch was scalding. | |
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| The Rain Shrouds
Posted: 12/7/2007 11:21:05 AM | | OMG! Earle gray tea does taste like perfumed fur or if I was to taste perfumed fur it would be pretty damn close to it. I've burnt my crotch on hot coffee, it aint pretty. | |
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| The Rain Shrouds
Posted: 12/8/2007 4:34:53 AM | | Hey, thanks for reading the story Edge. I've got to try and work on the next piece but it will have to wait as I have my son for a few days. I actually like a hint of Earl Gray mixed with other teas... but just a hint. Anything more and it claws the pallete as ghastly perfumes do the nose. | |
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| The Rain Shrouds
Posted: 12/10/2007 3:59:34 PM | | Very nice imagery. I read through the entire post. I am afraid i like Earl Grey tea. | |
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| The Rain Shrouds
Posted: 12/10/2007 4:26:14 PM | I'm a white tea man, myself.
Very nice writing, I apprecitate the terseness, and you capture the awkward nature of meetings like this perfectly. | |
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| The Rain Shrouds
Posted: 12/10/2007 6:42:50 PM | Thanks for the comments guys. I'm a bit busy right now and won't be able to add another section till Thursday of this week.
I knew many wouldn't like the 'terse', almost existential quality of the characters, Graham, but am glad some can appreciate the minimalist style for what it is meant to convey. | |
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miffys
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Joined: 2/22/2006
Msg: 13 | |
| The Rain Shrouds
Posted: 12/11/2007 4:54:24 AM | | That's just wonderful. Hurry up ol Man. I'm dying to know what happens. Perhaps I can inspire you? | |
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| The Rain Shrouds
Posted: 12/12/2007 10:33:46 PM | I like your story, but such a shame we have to wait until Thursday. Where have you been? Can't wait to read the rest. | |
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prata
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Joined: 7/5/2006
Msg: 15 | |
| The Rain Shrouds
Posted: 12/13/2007 8:24:15 AM | | Excellent work. I'm enjoying thoroughly. | |
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| The Rain Shrouds
Posted: 12/13/2007 6:30:49 PM | The Dinner
"I like to roast the mushrooms--baby bellas--rather
than fry them." She said as she entered, a steaming
dish balanced atop the dinner plates. "But I don't
like the way they look after being nuked."
She handed me a plate, put the other on the small
table and began ladling the cacciatore out.
"See? They look abused." She nudged one of the
mushrooms on my plate. It looked deflated, weary.
"Oh--!" She said, looking at my plate.
It took me a moment to realize that she was noticing
the steam rising up from my crotch. I yanked the
plate over the area.
"I...I've never cooked cacciatore." I said quickly.
"It smells great." My body demanded I squirm about;
the pain seeping around my privates was peeking. I
resisted. The food smelt wonderful and I sat looking
at the plate dumbly, trying to focus on it.
Laura was frozen in stance. Her eyes slid over to
the serving dish, but her spoon still pointed at where
the mushroom had been. Her arm and implement
held an almost accusatory line towards my inner
thighs. A drop formed on the spoons end, the tiny
reddish globe jerking her into motion. She ladled
food onto her plate and sat stiffly.
She hadn't brought cutlery or I'd have dug in: a much
needed distraction. I shifted uncomfortably.
"Look--uhm, the tea, I--" I began, trying to wrestle
with the steam episode.
"Did you want more?" She asked, grasping at the
verbal ritual.
"No, I--"
"We need forks and knives." She said, getting up.
"And I've forgotten the bread."
She scurried into the kitchen. My mouth worked
around words silently. I clamped my teeth together.
There was a pause of sound in the kitchen, the
silence resting so completely that it felt like I was
suddenly the only one in the house. Then I heard
her clear her throat and pick up the knives and forks.
The pain was ebbing from my crotch; I could feel
things shriveling up and moving down there. I
fought a desire to flee.
Laura came back in, carrying the implements and some
bread on a plate. Her face was flushed and I worked
up the nerve to look at her eyes. She avoided mine
while picking her food dish up, placing the bread down
and handing me a knife and fork. Her eyes seemed
moist and big, like a child's on Christmas morning.
It was hard to tell in the poor light.
"Delicious." I said, after having tucked into a few
bites. "Josi's bread goes perfectly."
The food really was quite good, even nuked, and I
smiled warmly despite the strange tea-steam episode.
I hoped my enthusiasm would catch but she just nodded
and carefully lifted some food to her mouth, keeping
her eyes averted. I turned back to my plate, but was
left with an image of her lips, covered slightly in
the tomato sauce, gleaming in the low light. She had
a thin upper lip, almost non-existent, but the lower
one was thick and pouty. I looked up through my
eye-brows, my face still down-turned, to catch her
licking the juices off the lower lip. Her tongue tip
slid out, very neatly, cautiously. She straightened
and cleared her throat again.
"So what exactly do you do downstairs?"
"I detail the work orders for the line crews, and send
acquisition notes to the supply department."
"Acquisition notes?"
"Yes--for the gear the guys will need in the field."
"Oh. I thought they carried everything they'd need in
the trucks?"
"No, the trucks just have the basic gear. Quite often
they need extra things to complete a job. So I find
out if we have it, get it brought up, all that kind of
thing."
"Oh." She said again, still averting her eyes. She
was focusing on the bread-plate.
"Not very exciting, I know." I said, trying to fill
the gap.
"Try sitting for eight hours everyday balancing
accounts receivable." She said. Her face developed a
few hard lines. "It's very boring. I think I'd like
to do your job. Or really--I'll let you in on a
secret: I've wanted to go out with the line crews."
"Really?" I smiled. "Me too. Just not on the really
cold days. Or the really hot ones." I tried to laugh
but it petered out as her expression still remained
stiff.
"I'd like to go out on those days." She said, then,
seeming to notice how her words could be an affront,
she added: "It's just very boring where I am. The
same accounts, day in, day out. I don't even have a
window. Sherry has one--a cubicle over. It looks
over the tar roof of the machine shop. A building on
the other side. Not much to look at, but I find
myself getting up every now and then just to look at a
tar roof and the side of a brick building. Sometimes,
after a rain, water pools on the roof and you can see
the reflection of the sky. I love the blue sky."
She was wistful, thinking about it all, her tongue
coming out to lick clean her lower lip again and I
found myself drawn towards her, yet repelled by the
idea of how she lived at work every day, how she
clearly hated it. How it...was killing her soul. Or
strangling it, or something.
"I love the sky too." I said. "Especially stormy
weather. But not like today. Today it was too thick
and over-cast. Just one big dark gray. But I really
like it when you see those big clouds all hunched up,
and the wispy ones racing below them." I had become a
bit animated in talking, trying to convey a sense of
movement, of energy, to lift her from her spell.
She looked me straight in the eyes and said, "Do you
ever wish you lived on an island?"
I doused some bread into the cacciatore sauce. "Sure,
who hasn't? Or maybe just a vacation. I went to Cuba
and did that. Kind of. It was a resort. Everything
was very nice but kind of like vacationing in a big
mall."
"No, I mean really just living on an island. Like a
savage." She said, still looking at me. Her eyes
were sad, inward, yet almost angry.
"Like a savage?"
She shrugged. "Silly of me, I know." Her mood
collapsed, leaving behind the pale, thin accounting
clerk with slightly stooped shoulders.
"I--I don't think it's silly at all." I said, not
really knowing why anyone would want to live on an
island like a savage. "I think it's kind of...kind
of... romantic. Like Castaway."
"That was a sad movie." She said. "I have it. Steve
loved it. It was Steve's. He wanted to be like Tom
Hanks and prove he was a man by building fire. He
tried in the back-yard one night after watching the
movie for the umpteenth time. Ridiculous."
"Did he?"
"Make the fire?"
"Yes."
"No, of course not. I watched him from the upstairs
bedroom window, wanting to love him for trying but all
the time thinking what a stupid little useless boy he
is." She paused for a moment, chewing a piece of
bread. "Then he came in, all huffy and said that he
didn't have the right wood. That Tom had had the
right wood on the island."
"What did you do?" I asked.
"What?"
I squirmed a bit, covering it up by reaching for more
bread.
"When he came back in--uhh... what did you do?"
"I don't know. Said 'that's nice dear' or something.
Or--now that I remember, I said he was probably right,
but that it was a movie anyway and someone else had
started the fire and made it look like Tom had done
it."
She gave me an odd look; distant and appraising--but
not in an entirely nice way. Kind of that hard look a
18th century school Mistress would give a slow child.
I shrugged and began to put the plate on the floor,
thought better of it and stood to put it in the
kitchen.
"That food really was very good. Thank you."
"I suppose you think you could do it." She said.
"Eh? What?"
"Light a fire."
I turned my head, unsure of her tone and caught her
looking at my ass. She averted her eyes quickly to
her plate. For some strange reason I felt like a
spider inching across its web, attracted by some tiny
vibration, and I stopped and turned slightly towards
her.
"I've never tried... but I think I'd need the right
material."
"Steve just made a lot of smoke." She said.
"Where there's smoke there's fire." I said, thinking
of the steam from my crotch. It was a bold thing to
say and I said it almost as if someone else had made
me say it.
"Not with Steve." She said, pointedly.
Things were getting tricky and I had always been
terrible at deciphering innuendo. If there even was
any with Laura.
"I'm not Steve." I said, then walked into the
kitchen.
She got up and followed after.
"Yes, but you boys are all the same."
"Are we?"
"Put the leftovers in the food-bin for recycling."
She said as I was trying to flip the garbage lid open.
"It's the green pale beside the cat box. You're all
the same. You all read 'Tom Sawyer' and boys books
about being able to survive in the wilds but the truth
is you can't."
I held the lid up for her. She scraped her plate
clean in one sweep then rapped the knife on the edge
to remove a few bits. She was so...perfunctory.
Precise. Her jaw was set in a stiff line and I was
about to work up an answer to rebuke her when I
noticed that her nipple, under the still-damp top, the
likely damp bra, was hard and erect. I wondered why I
hadn't noticed it before.
"You can't blame us for trying." I grinned. Somehow,
even under all the damp clothes, the scalding tea, and
now a very cold and wet loin-area, I was becoming
aroused.
"I didn't say I blamed you for trying. I was pointing
out that you guys always act like you can do
everything when you clearly can't." She put her arms
around herself, covering her breasts.
I rolled my eyes, put the plate by the sink and walked
out of the kitchen. She was irritating. | |
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miffys
|
Joined: 2/22/2006
Msg: 17 | |
| The Rain Shrouds
Posted: 12/13/2007 9:27:36 PM | | I'm still reading. Keep it coming ol Man! | |
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| The Rain Shrouds
Posted: 1/18/2008 2:09:29 AM | | And thennnnnnnnnn?? Come on Carver. | |
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| The Rain Shrouds
Posted: 4/3/2008 8:29:59 PM | | Wow - Yes she certainly IS irritating! This whole story is so tense, I want to slap someone, I'm just not sure who! Great writing. | |
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| The Rain Shrouds
Posted: 4/5/2008 4:50:17 AM | Great write 
hm, the moderator says I must say more than ;
Great write
hm . . . | |
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| The Rain Shrouds
Posted: 6/29/2008 12:34:37 PM | | you are good, hmmm made me hungry somehow | |
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| The Rain Shrouds
Posted: 7/3/2008 12:16:55 PM | | ~~~~~~~ definitely looking forward to more!!!~~~~~~~ | |
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| The Rain Shrouds
Posted: 7/31/2009 5:25:41 AM | | Savage, good story. Your use of commas, infallible! Anna | |
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