by deav - 12 mar 2008
“tear my chest and grab out my heart
kiss it, lick it, toss it, stare
step on, dance on, spit on my heart
i won’t have a heart to care.”
"drowning in a sea of faces, hardly keep my head above the surface..."
thirst (by deav 2003)
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
flashback
by deav - 27 jun 2007
She was in light spirit. They were in the other room, it was clean, the bed soft with the rattling of recently washed bedsheets. The window was open and the clear starry sky could be seen, no neighboring buildings from that angle. He smelled of fresh soap and cologne, snoring by her side. His hand touched her arm in his sleep and moved forward to her waist. It became slowly aware of her, bringing him closer to consciousness. He moaned and moved his head to kiss her on the neck.
Why not? She thought, not particularly in the mood, wondering that it would mean another bath after. It was hot, anyways.
It was still quite simple, then. She could not foresee how harder it would become as years went by. He was gentle, as usual. He had not become hesitant, then frustrated, then angry and rough. Yet.
But even as she slowly began to fall in that state of abandonment closely followed by the strain of building pleasure, she could fell that something was wrong.
She suddenly realized that she was panting, not out of desire, but out of fear. She wondered in slow motion that he would not notice, he could not tell the lines carved between her eyebrows and her growing moans now from her usual face of lust. Unless she told him. She tried to wash away the escalating sensation of anguish. Why now? She thought, now that everything seemed to be all right? Maybe she could just bear it, for the sake of starting over. Because she wanted everything to be well again.
But she just could not. All of a sudden she realized she had stopped breathing. Behind eyes shut there were images floating, lurking and she knew it was not about him, it was not his fault. She did not want to see the images, memories of things she was unaware of having experienced. But she could not open her eyes, she would have to look at him and she could not look at him, not now. But neither could she just bear it, she could not control the urge to push him away. And she did.
But he did not realize it was not the repulsion that comes from unbearable passion, not this time.
“Please, stop!” She did not know if she had said it aloud. She began to struggle and squirm. He groaned startled when she punched and kicked.
“What?!” Still panting, he released her, scared, worry washing away with paleness the flush of pleasure.
She stopped with a halt, eyes wide-open, breathing heavily, tears still rolling by the side of her face into her ears.
Was she screaming? NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO! She remembered she had.
“What happened? Did I hurt you?” He tried to touch her but she cringed away.
“I don’t know.” She just pulled the covers up to her breasts and rolled over, her back to him. She just wished she could explain; say that she was sorry, that it was not about him. But now she could barely stand his voice, his heat, let alone look at him.
He did not understand, but at least let her be, jumping out of the bed and dashing out of the room.
She just wished she could vanish. She swallowed back the bile. She did not dare to close her eyes again, lest the images would come back. Oh, tears. Now she could keep them open and yet not see.
* * *
She was in light spirit. They were in the other room, it was clean, the bed soft with the rattling of recently washed bedsheets. The window was open and the clear starry sky could be seen, no neighboring buildings from that angle. He smelled of fresh soap and cologne, snoring by her side. His hand touched her arm in his sleep and moved forward to her waist. It became slowly aware of her, bringing him closer to consciousness. He moaned and moved his head to kiss her on the neck.
Why not? She thought, not particularly in the mood, wondering that it would mean another bath after. It was hot, anyways.
It was still quite simple, then. She could not foresee how harder it would become as years went by. He was gentle, as usual. He had not become hesitant, then frustrated, then angry and rough. Yet.
But even as she slowly began to fall in that state of abandonment closely followed by the strain of building pleasure, she could fell that something was wrong.
She suddenly realized that she was panting, not out of desire, but out of fear. She wondered in slow motion that he would not notice, he could not tell the lines carved between her eyebrows and her growing moans now from her usual face of lust. Unless she told him. She tried to wash away the escalating sensation of anguish. Why now? She thought, now that everything seemed to be all right? Maybe she could just bear it, for the sake of starting over. Because she wanted everything to be well again.
But she just could not. All of a sudden she realized she had stopped breathing. Behind eyes shut there were images floating, lurking and she knew it was not about him, it was not his fault. She did not want to see the images, memories of things she was unaware of having experienced. But she could not open her eyes, she would have to look at him and she could not look at him, not now. But neither could she just bear it, she could not control the urge to push him away. And she did.
But he did not realize it was not the repulsion that comes from unbearable passion, not this time.
“Please, stop!” She did not know if she had said it aloud. She began to struggle and squirm. He groaned startled when she punched and kicked.
“What?!” Still panting, he released her, scared, worry washing away with paleness the flush of pleasure.
She stopped with a halt, eyes wide-open, breathing heavily, tears still rolling by the side of her face into her ears.
Was she screaming? NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO-NO! She remembered she had.
“What happened? Did I hurt you?” He tried to touch her but she cringed away.
“I don’t know.” She just pulled the covers up to her breasts and rolled over, her back to him. She just wished she could explain; say that she was sorry, that it was not about him. But now she could barely stand his voice, his heat, let alone look at him.
He did not understand, but at least let her be, jumping out of the bed and dashing out of the room.
She just wished she could vanish. She swallowed back the bile. She did not dare to close her eyes again, lest the images would come back. Oh, tears. Now she could keep them open and yet not see.
* * *
scribblings II
by deav - June 2007
M’eudail,
I put down the book for a while. I went to the kitchen for water and it just popped in my mind: “I need you.” I wonder what you’re doing now. Sleeping? Looking up at the oak beams in the ceiling, unable to sleep with restlessness not figured out? Dozing off in the leather armchair by the dying fire in the library, a book resting on your lap? Or is it too hot already for a fire, I wonder? But you left the window open. A gust of chill might eventually cool your cheeks and wake you with a slight shiver, as dawn breaks. I wish I were there to ease the crease between your brows with a kiss. And rub the tip of my finger gently on the deep red mark the rim of your glasses carved on the bridge of your nose.
“I need you” struck me with a shock, you know. I’ve been doing my best for a long time not to need anyone. I hope you will understand that it came then as a way of being at peace with solitude. And dealing with the dread of depending and being depended on. The need to be unattached. Free to go – where, I wonder?. But “I need you” comes now with a different meaning I can’t quite make out. All I know – feel – is, it’s huge, overwhelming. Scary. Like walking through fire. But I’m willing to do it if it takes me to you.
I hold my breath and shut my eyes and say a prayer for you. Sweet dreams, m’eudail. That feathery brush on your cool lips? It’s just the ghost of my kiss.
M’eudail,
I put down the book for a while. I went to the kitchen for water and it just popped in my mind: “I need you.” I wonder what you’re doing now. Sleeping? Looking up at the oak beams in the ceiling, unable to sleep with restlessness not figured out? Dozing off in the leather armchair by the dying fire in the library, a book resting on your lap? Or is it too hot already for a fire, I wonder? But you left the window open. A gust of chill might eventually cool your cheeks and wake you with a slight shiver, as dawn breaks. I wish I were there to ease the crease between your brows with a kiss. And rub the tip of my finger gently on the deep red mark the rim of your glasses carved on the bridge of your nose.
“I need you” struck me with a shock, you know. I’ve been doing my best for a long time not to need anyone. I hope you will understand that it came then as a way of being at peace with solitude. And dealing with the dread of depending and being depended on. The need to be unattached. Free to go – where, I wonder?. But “I need you” comes now with a different meaning I can’t quite make out. All I know – feel – is, it’s huge, overwhelming. Scary. Like walking through fire. But I’m willing to do it if it takes me to you.
I hold my breath and shut my eyes and say a prayer for you. Sweet dreams, m’eudail. That feathery brush on your cool lips? It’s just the ghost of my kiss.
scribblings (pencil tip rest)
by deav - 11 jun 2007
i can’t read anymore. it’s too painful. the smoke with a scent of vanilla burns my mouth and the rim of my lips. someone outside is boasting a championship. futile. it’s beautiful when the smoke goes up in perfect rings that shimmer and vanish in bluish swirls. when i blow out it’s yellowish and uglier, haze hanging beneath the lamp. it just does not linger enough and there’s no reason for another. the last sip of cool water, and the taste of vanilla remains fresh and pleasant.
i don’t want to think of it; yet the thought not thought hangs as much as the water that does not sink as fast as it should. there was rapture earlier brought by invisible hands and invisible lips on mine. i miss you so much. i write and shut my eyes.
there’s one thing i’m sure of: i have to go. through pain and disappointment. i have to go. i have to go. tic-tic. i shut my eyes.
i have to go. i boldface the i and sigh. tic-tic. i hope the answer comes with slumber. i hope i can remember. i shut my eyes.
i fill the cup again. i could have the pleasure again, easy in the cleft between my thighs in spite of myself. should i save it for when the hands are hot and the lips are real?
my hand hurts as i force the writing. i can hardly read through painful scribblings and letters erased. is it sleep, then? tic-tic. i snort but the lump in the throat brings the water back. go to bed. i fondle my knuckles dry. i drool on the page. go to bed. i shut my eyes. what i do next i don’t write.
* * *
i can’t read anymore. it’s too painful. the smoke with a scent of vanilla burns my mouth and the rim of my lips. someone outside is boasting a championship. futile. it’s beautiful when the smoke goes up in perfect rings that shimmer and vanish in bluish swirls. when i blow out it’s yellowish and uglier, haze hanging beneath the lamp. it just does not linger enough and there’s no reason for another. the last sip of cool water, and the taste of vanilla remains fresh and pleasant.
i don’t want to think of it; yet the thought not thought hangs as much as the water that does not sink as fast as it should. there was rapture earlier brought by invisible hands and invisible lips on mine. i miss you so much. i write and shut my eyes.
there’s one thing i’m sure of: i have to go. through pain and disappointment. i have to go. i have to go. tic-tic. i shut my eyes.
i have to go. i boldface the i and sigh. tic-tic. i hope the answer comes with slumber. i hope i can remember. i shut my eyes.
i fill the cup again. i could have the pleasure again, easy in the cleft between my thighs in spite of myself. should i save it for when the hands are hot and the lips are real?
my hand hurts as i force the writing. i can hardly read through painful scribblings and letters erased. is it sleep, then? tic-tic. i snort but the lump in the throat brings the water back. go to bed. i fondle my knuckles dry. i drool on the page. go to bed. i shut my eyes. what i do next i don’t write.
* * *
round lunch time I - II
by deav - 11 mar 2008
Round lunch time
As I walked in she was already there. She seemed small in the waiting room crowded with furniture too big for the tiny space. It crossed my mind that it had not changed in thirty years, as far as I could remember: the same dark oak desk opposite the entrance door, the pair of two-seat leather couches facing each other, the low wooden table with a glass top placed between the couches in a way that made moving quite hard. The twelve year-old I once was called it “the penguin dance” and laughed in silence as people did their best to walk sideways, hopping from left to right in the narrow gap, to sit down at last with a grunt or a sigh. The long-legged were the funniest. Now I was the long-legged hopping penguin.
Damn. I ventured a slant and thanked God she was not paying attention, too busy trying to wipe her red nose with one hand while tucking a dirty tissue in her bag with the other.
“Good afternoon”, I said, just to be polite. She raised a pair of red tired eyes to me with a nod, an effortful faint smile partially seen under the new tissue, the other quickly tucked in the bag. Poor thing. I tried to concentrate on the magazine that seemed the newest one among the others on the table. Wow, Pearl Jam is playing next week? How could I have missed that? Oh, ok, last year, I was there. Damn, Dr. Mac should really upgrade his library.
She coughed, coughed and coughed again, in spasms, as if having difficulty in getting the air in her lungs. As she fussed about in the bag the empty box of tissues fell down through the gap between the couch and the table.
“Er… There’s a toilet… That door on your right…”
She raised the wet eyes again in a mixture of despair and gratitude and made her own penguin dance towards the toilet. Gracefully, I had to admit. Nice ass, I could not avoid thinking.
As I went through last year’s news, one ear was paying attention to the noises coming from the toilet. Running water… Cough, cough… Cough, cough… Man, the woman knows how to blow a nose for sure. I wondered why I was not disgusted; maybe because I had been in her shoes growing up. Dr. Mac would fix her too.
“A little better?” I asked as she came out of the toilet, hopping gracefully again towards the couch and sitting with a sigh.
“Yes, thank you.” Visibly she was not, but her effort was quite moving. Her lids were swollen and probably burning. Fever only made her eyes brighter. Dark blue. Hmm…
“Don’t worry, Dr. Mac will fix you in no time.”
“I hope so…” She gave that faint smile back to me again for only one second, reaching inside the bag for the new stash of tissues. Then she just put on what I use to call a subway look and sank in the leather, miserably trying to control the flood from her nose.
As I picked up another magazine and went through what was news a year and a half ago, I had to admit that she was beautiful. Not particularly hot, certainly not the big rack type. The golden light from the long narrow window above Mrs. Kent’s oak desk gave her brown hair a dark copper tone.
Where is the old cow, anyways? I had told her I only had a little time before a meeting; it was only a follow-up appointment, for Christ’s sake. She was probably inside the exam room with him, debriefing the last patient.
Great legs. I swear I tried not to stare. She looked younger than she probably was. A little younger than myself, I calculated. Not married… Not at present, probably divorced. I wondered if she had kids… No. And why was I wasting time wondering about her again? There was something about her. Vulnerability? Well, she looked quite vulnerable now, all swollen and sore. Maybe she was just another crazy woman who had driven her ex-husband mad. The bitch.
Man, get a grip. She is not “her”. Damn. Those pretty eyes could not lie. But I had been lied to by pretty eyes before.
“John, my lad! Tae wha’ do I owe the pleasure of yer visit?”
“Dr. Mac, hi, you asked me to come as soon as I finished the treatment…”
“Och, aye. Come in, lad.”
I could feel it when she trembled.
“Er… Dr. Mac, I think this nice lady here needs you more than I do… She can go in now, I can wait…”
“Verra nice, then! Dinna fash, lad, it wilna be loung!” Yes, Dr. Mac, I know, not more than a couple of hours, I thought trying to conceal a laugh.
“Come in, lassie!”
I almost climbed the glass tabletop to grab her arm as she struggled to stand up. Or carry her inside in my arms. But I did not.
“Thank you, sir. You’re awfully kind”, she said in a whisper, a broader smile on her face of relief.
Man, you are fucking beautiful… I was afraid I had said it out loud but what came out was simply “Don’t mention it.” And I watched her walk inside with him as if she were entering a sanctuary.
I penguin-danced back to the couch, a stubborn smile making my jaw hurt. It had been a while since I had felt like smiling like that. I sat down, sighed and searched for my mobile.
“Greg? Hi! Er… Something came up and I have to re-schedule our meeting… Really, you too? … Great! … Five is good for you? ... Five thirty is fine. See you. Bye.”
As I tucked the phone in my pocket it hit me: I was feeling relaxed, invigorated, actually. Somehow I knew that everything would be all right now. Strange…
Round lunch time II
She had been there for a while when he walked in. Right, she thought. Of course it had to be a handsome man, sure, just now that her nose looked and behaved like a big red dripping tap. Damn. It was probably the mould, that old carpet must be crowded with acarids. She could almost feel them crawling up her legs. Long boots had been a good choice. And jeans. She closed her brown velvet jacket round her neck and quickly replaced the wet tissue for a new one. I should have bought another box. Damn.
She averted her look as he clumsily made his way to the leather couch opposite her. Funny. And kinda cute. But she was not going to laugh; she was not really in the mood for laughing, not after the last sleepless nights sitting up on the bed to prevent the coughing attacks, the headache, the fever, the running nose, the pain all over her body.
“Good afternoon.”
She was sure he had just said that to be polite. She nodded and forced a smile under the next tissue. And she was really grateful when he grabbed a magazine and tried to look really interested in last year’s news. She would not venture a read this time. Old magazines plus doctor’s office equals acarids. The last thing she needed now was a sneezing crisis. Or another session of coughs.
She looked around. Although the pieces of furniture were too big for the waiting room, she had to admit that they were beautiful. She wondered that the oak desk must be two hundred years old. The leather crackled beneath her – and him, for that matter - every time she moved, as if it were new and had been recently polished. Polish. Oh, no, the cough! She screamed in her mind trying desperately to hold back the spasm and get some air in her lungs.
Fuck me. She just could not believe when she realized that the box of tissues was empty. She searched hopelessly in the bag for that last single piece of tissue that could be hiding under her wallet. No. Ok, she could try to reuse the ones she had tucked in there. Eew!
She was about to try to rescue the empty box that of course had fallen down that impossible gap between the couch and the table – what nut, sadistic person would place those humongous pieces of furniture in that impossible fashion?! – when the handsome man came to her aid:
“Er… There’s a toilet…” - where, for the love of the Goddess? – “That door on your right…”
She raised her wet eyes to him with a mixture of despair and gratitude and made her way through that ridiculous half meter towards the toilet as graciously as she could. At least she would preserve her dignity. Go ahead, check my butt, you pervert. At least that part of her was presentable. She locked the door too thin for her taste and tried to control the attack. Fuck it, this is a doctor’s office, I’m fucking sick, I just can’t be a fucking lady now! She was really mad at handsome man when she gave her nose a deep and thorough blow. She stared at the reddish-green thing in the sink with disgust. My Goddess, I’ll never be able to kiss anybody again, ever, for the rest of my life! She sighed and fiercely attacked the tissue dispenser, staring at her running nose that seemed to defy her from the other side of the mirror. Now I’m ready for you. She looked at her wasted face, tucked a stubborn lock of hair behind her ear and felt like crying. You’re a mess, woman. She wished she could just hide there, at least until handsome man was gone, maybe let her nose drip straight into the sink. No? Go, woman, be brave.
“A little better?” he asked as she hopped back to her couch.
“Yes, thank you”, she replied through a clogged nose. Beautiful baritone…
“Don’t worry, Dr. Mac will fix you in no time.”
“I hope so.” She smiled faintly. He’d better. She rushed to get another tissue as her nose started running again. And now her eyelids were burning. Fever. She knew the symptoms too well. She sank in the leather and surrendered to a terrible feeling of exhaustion. She had always had those episodes, but it had all got worse since the divorce. New home, new job… She knew she was turning all the stress into illness. All of a sudden she felt ashamed of her private tantrum against handsome man. She had to admit he had tried to be nice. He was not him, for the Goddess’s sake. By now he would be quite mad at her, actually blaming her for being sick. She wondered it had been a blessing after all that they had not had kids. Fifteen years. She knew she looked younger than she was, but lately she had been feeling a lot much older. She wondered if handsome man was checking her, but she was too tired to worry. Ok, did he really stare as she crossed her legs? Or was she hallucinating? The fever, perhaps…
But he was really handsome. Grey eyes. Sad eyes. She could tell that he had suffered, that crease between his eyebrows could not lie. Tissue after tissue provided good shelter for a closer watch: light brown hair turning grey on the sides; tall; broad shoulders; strong arms visible beneath the sleeves of the suit; business man, probably self-made; a little older than herself; she could bet he was divorced. But his most striking feature was the eyes. Sweet, softening the grave expression of the square jaw, the nose almost too long, the hard thin lips. Lips… Kiss…
“John, my lad! Tae wha’ do I owe the pleasure of yer visit?”
“Dr. Mac, hi, you asked me to come as soon as I finished the treatment…”
“Och, aye. Come in, lad.”
For no particular reason she trembled. It could be that she was shivering. It could be the perspective of another long wait. It could be that he would go away and she would never see him again. Damn fever!
“Er… Dr. Mac, I think this nice lady here needs you more than I do… She can go in now, I can wait…” She held her breath.
“Verra nice, then! Dinna fash, lad, it wilna be loung! Come in, lassie!” Handsome man made an almost imperceptible funny face.
“Thank you, sir. You’re awfully kind”, she smiled and sighed with relief. I love you, you’re my hero, I want to marry you and be the mother of your four children. She was afraid she had said it out loud. Crazy fever!
“Don’t mention it.” He had the most beautiful smile and she thought that he was actually glowing. Blessed fever!
A smile frozen in her face made her jaw hurt. She wondered it had been a while since she had felt like smiling that way. She suddenly felt light and safe and entered the office with that nice old doctor as if it were a sanctuary. Somehow she knew that everything would be all right now. Good…
* * *
Round lunch time
As I walked in she was already there. She seemed small in the waiting room crowded with furniture too big for the tiny space. It crossed my mind that it had not changed in thirty years, as far as I could remember: the same dark oak desk opposite the entrance door, the pair of two-seat leather couches facing each other, the low wooden table with a glass top placed between the couches in a way that made moving quite hard. The twelve year-old I once was called it “the penguin dance” and laughed in silence as people did their best to walk sideways, hopping from left to right in the narrow gap, to sit down at last with a grunt or a sigh. The long-legged were the funniest. Now I was the long-legged hopping penguin.
Damn. I ventured a slant and thanked God she was not paying attention, too busy trying to wipe her red nose with one hand while tucking a dirty tissue in her bag with the other.
“Good afternoon”, I said, just to be polite. She raised a pair of red tired eyes to me with a nod, an effortful faint smile partially seen under the new tissue, the other quickly tucked in the bag. Poor thing. I tried to concentrate on the magazine that seemed the newest one among the others on the table. Wow, Pearl Jam is playing next week? How could I have missed that? Oh, ok, last year, I was there. Damn, Dr. Mac should really upgrade his library.
She coughed, coughed and coughed again, in spasms, as if having difficulty in getting the air in her lungs. As she fussed about in the bag the empty box of tissues fell down through the gap between the couch and the table.
“Er… There’s a toilet… That door on your right…”
She raised the wet eyes again in a mixture of despair and gratitude and made her own penguin dance towards the toilet. Gracefully, I had to admit. Nice ass, I could not avoid thinking.
As I went through last year’s news, one ear was paying attention to the noises coming from the toilet. Running water… Cough, cough… Cough, cough… Man, the woman knows how to blow a nose for sure. I wondered why I was not disgusted; maybe because I had been in her shoes growing up. Dr. Mac would fix her too.
“A little better?” I asked as she came out of the toilet, hopping gracefully again towards the couch and sitting with a sigh.
“Yes, thank you.” Visibly she was not, but her effort was quite moving. Her lids were swollen and probably burning. Fever only made her eyes brighter. Dark blue. Hmm…
“Don’t worry, Dr. Mac will fix you in no time.”
“I hope so…” She gave that faint smile back to me again for only one second, reaching inside the bag for the new stash of tissues. Then she just put on what I use to call a subway look and sank in the leather, miserably trying to control the flood from her nose.
As I picked up another magazine and went through what was news a year and a half ago, I had to admit that she was beautiful. Not particularly hot, certainly not the big rack type. The golden light from the long narrow window above Mrs. Kent’s oak desk gave her brown hair a dark copper tone.
Where is the old cow, anyways? I had told her I only had a little time before a meeting; it was only a follow-up appointment, for Christ’s sake. She was probably inside the exam room with him, debriefing the last patient.
Great legs. I swear I tried not to stare. She looked younger than she probably was. A little younger than myself, I calculated. Not married… Not at present, probably divorced. I wondered if she had kids… No. And why was I wasting time wondering about her again? There was something about her. Vulnerability? Well, she looked quite vulnerable now, all swollen and sore. Maybe she was just another crazy woman who had driven her ex-husband mad. The bitch.
Man, get a grip. She is not “her”. Damn. Those pretty eyes could not lie. But I had been lied to by pretty eyes before.
“John, my lad! Tae wha’ do I owe the pleasure of yer visit?”
“Dr. Mac, hi, you asked me to come as soon as I finished the treatment…”
“Och, aye. Come in, lad.”
I could feel it when she trembled.
“Er… Dr. Mac, I think this nice lady here needs you more than I do… She can go in now, I can wait…”
“Verra nice, then! Dinna fash, lad, it wilna be loung!” Yes, Dr. Mac, I know, not more than a couple of hours, I thought trying to conceal a laugh.
“Come in, lassie!”
I almost climbed the glass tabletop to grab her arm as she struggled to stand up. Or carry her inside in my arms. But I did not.
“Thank you, sir. You’re awfully kind”, she said in a whisper, a broader smile on her face of relief.
Man, you are fucking beautiful… I was afraid I had said it out loud but what came out was simply “Don’t mention it.” And I watched her walk inside with him as if she were entering a sanctuary.
I penguin-danced back to the couch, a stubborn smile making my jaw hurt. It had been a while since I had felt like smiling like that. I sat down, sighed and searched for my mobile.
“Greg? Hi! Er… Something came up and I have to re-schedule our meeting… Really, you too? … Great! … Five is good for you? ... Five thirty is fine. See you. Bye.”
As I tucked the phone in my pocket it hit me: I was feeling relaxed, invigorated, actually. Somehow I knew that everything would be all right now. Strange…
Round lunch time II
She had been there for a while when he walked in. Right, she thought. Of course it had to be a handsome man, sure, just now that her nose looked and behaved like a big red dripping tap. Damn. It was probably the mould, that old carpet must be crowded with acarids. She could almost feel them crawling up her legs. Long boots had been a good choice. And jeans. She closed her brown velvet jacket round her neck and quickly replaced the wet tissue for a new one. I should have bought another box. Damn.
She averted her look as he clumsily made his way to the leather couch opposite her. Funny. And kinda cute. But she was not going to laugh; she was not really in the mood for laughing, not after the last sleepless nights sitting up on the bed to prevent the coughing attacks, the headache, the fever, the running nose, the pain all over her body.
“Good afternoon.”
She was sure he had just said that to be polite. She nodded and forced a smile under the next tissue. And she was really grateful when he grabbed a magazine and tried to look really interested in last year’s news. She would not venture a read this time. Old magazines plus doctor’s office equals acarids. The last thing she needed now was a sneezing crisis. Or another session of coughs.
She looked around. Although the pieces of furniture were too big for the waiting room, she had to admit that they were beautiful. She wondered that the oak desk must be two hundred years old. The leather crackled beneath her – and him, for that matter - every time she moved, as if it were new and had been recently polished. Polish. Oh, no, the cough! She screamed in her mind trying desperately to hold back the spasm and get some air in her lungs.
Fuck me. She just could not believe when she realized that the box of tissues was empty. She searched hopelessly in the bag for that last single piece of tissue that could be hiding under her wallet. No. Ok, she could try to reuse the ones she had tucked in there. Eew!
She was about to try to rescue the empty box that of course had fallen down that impossible gap between the couch and the table – what nut, sadistic person would place those humongous pieces of furniture in that impossible fashion?! – when the handsome man came to her aid:
“Er… There’s a toilet…” - where, for the love of the Goddess? – “That door on your right…”
She raised her wet eyes to him with a mixture of despair and gratitude and made her way through that ridiculous half meter towards the toilet as graciously as she could. At least she would preserve her dignity. Go ahead, check my butt, you pervert. At least that part of her was presentable. She locked the door too thin for her taste and tried to control the attack. Fuck it, this is a doctor’s office, I’m fucking sick, I just can’t be a fucking lady now! She was really mad at handsome man when she gave her nose a deep and thorough blow. She stared at the reddish-green thing in the sink with disgust. My Goddess, I’ll never be able to kiss anybody again, ever, for the rest of my life! She sighed and fiercely attacked the tissue dispenser, staring at her running nose that seemed to defy her from the other side of the mirror. Now I’m ready for you. She looked at her wasted face, tucked a stubborn lock of hair behind her ear and felt like crying. You’re a mess, woman. She wished she could just hide there, at least until handsome man was gone, maybe let her nose drip straight into the sink. No? Go, woman, be brave.
“A little better?” he asked as she hopped back to her couch.
“Yes, thank you”, she replied through a clogged nose. Beautiful baritone…
“Don’t worry, Dr. Mac will fix you in no time.”
“I hope so.” She smiled faintly. He’d better. She rushed to get another tissue as her nose started running again. And now her eyelids were burning. Fever. She knew the symptoms too well. She sank in the leather and surrendered to a terrible feeling of exhaustion. She had always had those episodes, but it had all got worse since the divorce. New home, new job… She knew she was turning all the stress into illness. All of a sudden she felt ashamed of her private tantrum against handsome man. She had to admit he had tried to be nice. He was not him, for the Goddess’s sake. By now he would be quite mad at her, actually blaming her for being sick. She wondered it had been a blessing after all that they had not had kids. Fifteen years. She knew she looked younger than she was, but lately she had been feeling a lot much older. She wondered if handsome man was checking her, but she was too tired to worry. Ok, did he really stare as she crossed her legs? Or was she hallucinating? The fever, perhaps…
But he was really handsome. Grey eyes. Sad eyes. She could tell that he had suffered, that crease between his eyebrows could not lie. Tissue after tissue provided good shelter for a closer watch: light brown hair turning grey on the sides; tall; broad shoulders; strong arms visible beneath the sleeves of the suit; business man, probably self-made; a little older than herself; she could bet he was divorced. But his most striking feature was the eyes. Sweet, softening the grave expression of the square jaw, the nose almost too long, the hard thin lips. Lips… Kiss…
“John, my lad! Tae wha’ do I owe the pleasure of yer visit?”
“Dr. Mac, hi, you asked me to come as soon as I finished the treatment…”
“Och, aye. Come in, lad.”
For no particular reason she trembled. It could be that she was shivering. It could be the perspective of another long wait. It could be that he would go away and she would never see him again. Damn fever!
“Er… Dr. Mac, I think this nice lady here needs you more than I do… She can go in now, I can wait…” She held her breath.
“Verra nice, then! Dinna fash, lad, it wilna be loung! Come in, lassie!” Handsome man made an almost imperceptible funny face.
“Thank you, sir. You’re awfully kind”, she smiled and sighed with relief. I love you, you’re my hero, I want to marry you and be the mother of your four children. She was afraid she had said it out loud. Crazy fever!
“Don’t mention it.” He had the most beautiful smile and she thought that he was actually glowing. Blessed fever!
A smile frozen in her face made her jaw hurt. She wondered it had been a while since she had felt like smiling that way. She suddenly felt light and safe and entered the office with that nice old doctor as if it were a sanctuary. Somehow she knew that everything would be all right now. Good…
* * *
pictures in mind
by deav - 28 feb 2008
The rain floated around her like foam. She pulled up the collar of the leather coat and folded the lapels over the scarf already rolled up around her neck. It was cold, but that was exactly what she had been hoping for. The woolen cap down to the eyebrows would have to do; she would not open the umbrella again.
They had just walked ahead, leaving her behind. They were probably used by now to her compulsion for tiny little flowers growing on every roadside. There were many here, scattered on the bushes that showed above the stonewalls along the way. At last. She closed her eyes to enjoy the silence of almost wilderness; she was disturbed too soon, though. The roar of an engine in the distance was louder than the buzzing of the midges, the flapping of wings, the occasional chirp hidden by the leaves, when the wind was too strong, shaking the higher branches. Eyes still closed, she lifted her head and breathed in the flowery scent. She tried to identify beneath the overall green all the strange notes the soft rain extracted from the landscape, so alien to her. Ozone. Peat. Salt. Smoke. Honey, perhaps? Something smelled red.
There was laughter from somewhere down below. She was surprised to see that the concrete pavement turned into a pebbly pathway around the bend, leading downwards. And that the tall oak she had seen from the top of the road actually hid a breathtaking view.
“Ah…” she sighed, coming to a halt at the top of the soft slope. There it was, again, the feeling she had been experiencing continuously since they had arrived, that she could only call awe. She went down slowly, her heart beating fast. She bit her lower lip, she would not cry in front of them. Soon her feet touched the slippery surface of the rocky shore.
“Watch your step, it’s slippery there,” he said, and she was grateful again for his care, and somewhat disturbed. He made her feel that way, she was aware of that by now. She gave a shrug.
“Ok.” She went on cautiously, closer to the waterline, until she had the whole view.
It was a small bay. Actually, she was not so sure they were not trespassing; it could well be someone’s backyard. While they played and laughed, she put on her landscape face and shut them out. She wanted to keep that place carved in her memory. The line where the bay met the grey-green bushy hill on her left. The narrow band of rocky beach. Moist black stones beneath her feet, covered with seaweed that smelled like caviar, in dark shades of yellow and brown; and floating cushions bigger than she had ever seen. They were having fun popping the airbags like in those plastic wrappings. There were trees to her right. And, beyond, the point where the bay met the open water that she could see with her mind’s eyes. The water mirror lay in shades of lead, where more seaweed floated like grass around the small boat; it seemed that only the towrope prevented it from going adrift.
Her eyes moved slowly up. She held her breath when she saw the black shaded reflex of the moors beyond, as if for the first time. And she exhaled when silvery clouds emerged dramatically from yonder. They kept on laughing and she just wanted to cry, of joy, of gratefulness. She knew that they could not understand. Maybe he could, but she was not sure about who he really was. As she stood there, looking in the face of wonder, it became clear that she had no right to try to find out. But it did not really matter. All she could do was accept his kindness as another thing to be grateful for.
She closed her eyes. The image of that special place was vivid enough in her mind. She could go now.
She opened her eyes and reeled on the slipping stones towards them and smiled to herself. The only bright color in the whole black and white scene was the red of his scarf.
The rain floated around her like foam. She pulled up the collar of the leather coat and folded the lapels over the scarf already rolled up around her neck. It was cold, but that was exactly what she had been hoping for. The woolen cap down to the eyebrows would have to do; she would not open the umbrella again.
They had just walked ahead, leaving her behind. They were probably used by now to her compulsion for tiny little flowers growing on every roadside. There were many here, scattered on the bushes that showed above the stonewalls along the way. At last. She closed her eyes to enjoy the silence of almost wilderness; she was disturbed too soon, though. The roar of an engine in the distance was louder than the buzzing of the midges, the flapping of wings, the occasional chirp hidden by the leaves, when the wind was too strong, shaking the higher branches. Eyes still closed, she lifted her head and breathed in the flowery scent. She tried to identify beneath the overall green all the strange notes the soft rain extracted from the landscape, so alien to her. Ozone. Peat. Salt. Smoke. Honey, perhaps? Something smelled red.
There was laughter from somewhere down below. She was surprised to see that the concrete pavement turned into a pebbly pathway around the bend, leading downwards. And that the tall oak she had seen from the top of the road actually hid a breathtaking view.
“Ah…” she sighed, coming to a halt at the top of the soft slope. There it was, again, the feeling she had been experiencing continuously since they had arrived, that she could only call awe. She went down slowly, her heart beating fast. She bit her lower lip, she would not cry in front of them. Soon her feet touched the slippery surface of the rocky shore.
“Watch your step, it’s slippery there,” he said, and she was grateful again for his care, and somewhat disturbed. He made her feel that way, she was aware of that by now. She gave a shrug.
“Ok.” She went on cautiously, closer to the waterline, until she had the whole view.
It was a small bay. Actually, she was not so sure they were not trespassing; it could well be someone’s backyard. While they played and laughed, she put on her landscape face and shut them out. She wanted to keep that place carved in her memory. The line where the bay met the grey-green bushy hill on her left. The narrow band of rocky beach. Moist black stones beneath her feet, covered with seaweed that smelled like caviar, in dark shades of yellow and brown; and floating cushions bigger than she had ever seen. They were having fun popping the airbags like in those plastic wrappings. There were trees to her right. And, beyond, the point where the bay met the open water that she could see with her mind’s eyes. The water mirror lay in shades of lead, where more seaweed floated like grass around the small boat; it seemed that only the towrope prevented it from going adrift.
Her eyes moved slowly up. She held her breath when she saw the black shaded reflex of the moors beyond, as if for the first time. And she exhaled when silvery clouds emerged dramatically from yonder. They kept on laughing and she just wanted to cry, of joy, of gratefulness. She knew that they could not understand. Maybe he could, but she was not sure about who he really was. As she stood there, looking in the face of wonder, it became clear that she had no right to try to find out. But it did not really matter. All she could do was accept his kindness as another thing to be grateful for.
She closed her eyes. The image of that special place was vivid enough in her mind. She could go now.
She opened her eyes and reeled on the slipping stones towards them and smiled to herself. The only bright color in the whole black and white scene was the red of his scarf.
arrange something
by deav - 27 feb 2008
SCREEEEESH … DRUUMM!
She trembled violently and opened her eyes. Panting, heart beating fast, she was disoriented at first, in the dark. Someone was screaming and shouting outside, but at first it felt like a nightmare.
Fuck, she thought, lying back down, still shaking and nauseous with her heart in her throat. She tried to focus her ear above the sound of the fan. Someone was cursing really loud; to her it meant that nobody had been seriously hurt. She took a deep breath and turned to the side.
“Fuck,” she said low, when she accidentally saw the alarm clock: 4 am, universal insomnia time; wake-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night time; cry-yourself-to-sleep time; and, apparently, wake-up-trembling-because-of-the-sound-of-a-car-crash time. Sometimes it was a gunshot. She could go on and on about 4 am, but she just wanted to go back to sleep.
“Fuck,” she grunted, knowing that going back to sleep would not be so easy. She rolled to her back and spread arms and legs. Eyes adjusted to the dark, the streetlights made the room annoyingly illuminated. The noise of the fan was just as annoying. She snorted, irritated.
And then she sneezed. Of course, it was hot, but the artificial wind against her naked skin made her shiver. There was the dust, too.
I have to vacuum the room, she thought, rolling to the other side and wrapping herself in the sheet. On the weekend. Maybe clean the top of the wardrobe. Change bedclothes too. Maybe she could finally clear the armoire and give all the empty folders to her nieces. After all, they’re plastic, good quality, for school. But then she would have to clean the vacuum cleaner… That was no problem. But for the clothes recently washed, she would have to take them from the hanger and keep them before cleaning the dust bag, otherwise they would get dusty, because of the wind. It always winds. She remembered the old house, the windstorms that used to shake the window frames. And that mini tornado, she had spent the night on the couch, grabbing her purse, watching tree branches fly by the window in the living room. On the eleventh floor.
“Shit,” she whispered, when she remembered that she had to repair the rack hanger in the wardrobe, collapsed under the weight of the clothes that now piled up on the inner shelf. Was she doing the same thing here, she wondered, let the house crumble down? It seemed the two houses were twins, it seemed that they were somehow connected, in a spooky way; the new one had developed problems in the same areas as in the old one. That leak on the bathroom ceiling. The clogging in the lock of the front door. Windows that don’t lock. Useful things piling up in the service room for future use. But she did not want to think about that. She had to sleep.
She turned to the other side to face the fan, feeling hot all of a sudden. Maybe it was time to give the old furniture for donation. She was feeling suffocated, as if things were cluttering around her. She didn’t need the rocking chair. Or the colossal bookshelf/tv rack. It was about time to change the couch, too. Yes, just get rid of it. She could give away the books too; and the cds, her brother-in-law would be thrilled.
“Good plan,” she mumbled, pulling the sheet to her shoulders. She forced the lids shut, trying to ignore the dim. That old mattress in the service room would have to go, definitely. She could assemble the single bed again in the spare room and use a futon for mattress. And the couch would go to the living room. Without the bookshelf, she would need another piece of furniture for the tv set. She wondered if that good store was still open, they had lovely pieces. Maybe this time there would be enough money to buy the crystal closet she’s always dreamed of, to keep her trinkets, stones, crystal jars, candles. Her hourglass collection, of course.
“Right,” she yawned, rolling again to the other side, grabbing the sheet by her breast but leaving the feet out. Maybe this way she could have friends for dinner; use that book of Greek recipes at last. It would be nice to have people in the house other than the cable guy or the doorman. Maybe he would come and she would not be ashamed of the mess.
“Not again,” she said out loud, opening her eyes. She sighed and closed them again slowly, holding back a stubborn tear. She knew that he would never come. She cuddled herself and cried, deeply, quietly. No one would hear her with the noise of the fan. Next thing she would wake up with the maddening sound of the alarm clock, not even noticing that she had fallen asleep. As usual.
SCREEEEESH … DRUUMM!
She trembled violently and opened her eyes. Panting, heart beating fast, she was disoriented at first, in the dark. Someone was screaming and shouting outside, but at first it felt like a nightmare.
Fuck, she thought, lying back down, still shaking and nauseous with her heart in her throat. She tried to focus her ear above the sound of the fan. Someone was cursing really loud; to her it meant that nobody had been seriously hurt. She took a deep breath and turned to the side.
“Fuck,” she said low, when she accidentally saw the alarm clock: 4 am, universal insomnia time; wake-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night time; cry-yourself-to-sleep time; and, apparently, wake-up-trembling-because-of-the-sound-of-a-car-crash time. Sometimes it was a gunshot. She could go on and on about 4 am, but she just wanted to go back to sleep.
“Fuck,” she grunted, knowing that going back to sleep would not be so easy. She rolled to her back and spread arms and legs. Eyes adjusted to the dark, the streetlights made the room annoyingly illuminated. The noise of the fan was just as annoying. She snorted, irritated.
And then she sneezed. Of course, it was hot, but the artificial wind against her naked skin made her shiver. There was the dust, too.
I have to vacuum the room, she thought, rolling to the other side and wrapping herself in the sheet. On the weekend. Maybe clean the top of the wardrobe. Change bedclothes too. Maybe she could finally clear the armoire and give all the empty folders to her nieces. After all, they’re plastic, good quality, for school. But then she would have to clean the vacuum cleaner… That was no problem. But for the clothes recently washed, she would have to take them from the hanger and keep them before cleaning the dust bag, otherwise they would get dusty, because of the wind. It always winds. She remembered the old house, the windstorms that used to shake the window frames. And that mini tornado, she had spent the night on the couch, grabbing her purse, watching tree branches fly by the window in the living room. On the eleventh floor.
“Shit,” she whispered, when she remembered that she had to repair the rack hanger in the wardrobe, collapsed under the weight of the clothes that now piled up on the inner shelf. Was she doing the same thing here, she wondered, let the house crumble down? It seemed the two houses were twins, it seemed that they were somehow connected, in a spooky way; the new one had developed problems in the same areas as in the old one. That leak on the bathroom ceiling. The clogging in the lock of the front door. Windows that don’t lock. Useful things piling up in the service room for future use. But she did not want to think about that. She had to sleep.
She turned to the other side to face the fan, feeling hot all of a sudden. Maybe it was time to give the old furniture for donation. She was feeling suffocated, as if things were cluttering around her. She didn’t need the rocking chair. Or the colossal bookshelf/tv rack. It was about time to change the couch, too. Yes, just get rid of it. She could give away the books too; and the cds, her brother-in-law would be thrilled.
“Good plan,” she mumbled, pulling the sheet to her shoulders. She forced the lids shut, trying to ignore the dim. That old mattress in the service room would have to go, definitely. She could assemble the single bed again in the spare room and use a futon for mattress. And the couch would go to the living room. Without the bookshelf, she would need another piece of furniture for the tv set. She wondered if that good store was still open, they had lovely pieces. Maybe this time there would be enough money to buy the crystal closet she’s always dreamed of, to keep her trinkets, stones, crystal jars, candles. Her hourglass collection, of course.
“Right,” she yawned, rolling again to the other side, grabbing the sheet by her breast but leaving the feet out. Maybe this way she could have friends for dinner; use that book of Greek recipes at last. It would be nice to have people in the house other than the cable guy or the doorman. Maybe he would come and she would not be ashamed of the mess.
“Not again,” she said out loud, opening her eyes. She sighed and closed them again slowly, holding back a stubborn tear. She knew that he would never come. She cuddled herself and cried, deeply, quietly. No one would hear her with the noise of the fan. Next thing she would wake up with the maddening sound of the alarm clock, not even noticing that she had fallen asleep. As usual.
twelve words
twelve words - 03 oct 2007
by deav
mark, social, spark, flaw, illuminate, embark, follow, school, rule, knuckles, lady, worn
another day breaks
as sunbeams spark
i think of you
like some daily rule
dreams illuminate
the old car park
i think of you
it’s somehow new
is it a social flaw
to cry as you embark?
i wave to you
like sending you to school
another day worn
that old shadows mark
i think of you
i’m the lady of fool
scraped knuckles ache
stain the wall in the dark
i think of you
if i could follow you...
by deav
mark, social, spark, flaw, illuminate, embark, follow, school, rule, knuckles, lady, worn
another day breaks
as sunbeams spark
i think of you
like some daily rule
dreams illuminate
the old car park
i think of you
it’s somehow new
is it a social flaw
to cry as you embark?
i wave to you
like sending you to school
another day worn
that old shadows mark
i think of you
i’m the lady of fool
scraped knuckles ache
stain the wall in the dark
i think of you
if i could follow you...
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