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Subject: short story
Date: Sun, 02 Nov 2008 11:16:31 -0500
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The Contrasting Heat & Cold of Duality
This Summer she's be a smoker, and live the partial life of a Virginia Slims
callander model & all the confidence, and dresses color it implied - she
struck a match, it's explosion of heat, she placed the engulfing flame to
the tip of her cigarette... It was a sultry Summer's day, and her coffee's
heat seeped into the air, as she waited for it to cool half-forgotten on
polished quiet of the coffee-table. She reclined on the couch, her laptop
resting upon her knees. Writing was a force within her chest, bursting from
beneath her breast-bone, and fine Summer's dress. She composed her secret
wisdom into boxed, heart shaped, sumptuous-chocolate-candy-bights, shaped
into flowing expanse of paragraphs fashioned carefully for mass-consumption.
The sun's light, shining through the sliding Windexed glass patio doors,
didn't distract her from the dark vacuum of starry night, contained immense
beyond the over-bright-shining-sun's light. She wore a new dress, bought
yesterday for forty dollars, and it's lightness hung softly at her
shoulders, and hem lightly tickling the at her knees.
She had come fresh from the play-ground, swinging in the heat of the sun,
and the cool air rushed by climbing & beyond, & returning and, back again in
quiet cycles. The Sea of The Sound blue in hue, and it's cool & quiet cold
beckoning, for her to swim & swim - which she did, Quietly off in the
distance, in one giant lap, under the lifeguards casual eye & scrutiny,
across and back, back and back. As she waded in the water, in her blue
bikini, the chill & cold came up from her feet & toes, and with quiet shock,
shivered her body from her frightful, quieting, fever of Summer's waning
lightness, so She swam...
She had emerged from the water, and the man with the handsome face & nice
body tried to strike up a conversation - "I saw you swimming out there..,
you had looked like an angel in the water. Instilled instinct told her that
this should be her chance for the romance she had always craved, but the way
he looked at her cast a shadow, anchoring behind himself, like the serine
darkness of man's spirit, and the deep depths beyond.
"I luxuriate in the water," she said, as she paused for a step, her while
ankles still in the cool of the water, the shining sun heating up her body
and beyond...
"I'm going to a party tonight, and I'd like for you to come."
If only I haven't promised my computer that I would write on her into the
night..." but I can do that later. She said, "I'd love to come."
"A writer."
"Yes."
"If you write as elegantly as you swim I'd love to read it sometime..., it
must be as, quiet & cool as the sea..."
She thought of him contained insider her as few other's have been, and this
thought continued into the sound of his voice and very manly intellect, his
heart beating like fishes swimming below the ocean of his chest, her legs
enfolding his thighs - A rhythm she now thought she couldn't do without.
She continued to walk, her feet leaving the wet of the water.. "It was nice
talking to you..."
"Did we speak," he asked, as if from the implying darkness quietly contained
within the beating of his heart...
She stopped & turned back toward him, & to the water.. "What have we to say
to one-another..."
He looked her over.
"which already hasn't been said..."
"You can come & sit with me, and see..."
She looked to him and back to the blanket of his belongings beyond - blue it
was, & inviting like a light-blue sky without a sun, & a Universe of Starry
desire compelled her to sit.
"...I have this man in my mind and I think you're him," she said.
"Indeed?"
"I've been searching for you, but now for a man is what I do not want.. I
thought of trying a woman," she said & Lauren Bacall came to her mind, & the
quiet heat of her body, and coolness of expression. Once when she nearly
lost her mind, as a touch-stone, she had imagined passionately Bacall and
Bogart, Bacall & Bogart, quietly & again. But now she imagined herself
Wholly as Bogart - herself open to a wide whole world, where Bacall, waited
with him, within his protection - a thief alone, and again he visits her in
the safety of her house - bound as she was within it's borders., and now she
was like Bogart roaming around this town through the sunlight, & through
borders beyond, again the night-sky resting immense and quiet beyond the
sun, as the unseen daytime stars and cunning constellation there in. "I've
thought for a long time that I needed you, to only come to the freedom being
accustomed, yielding more to my needs..."
"The Party..," he said.
She thought for a step, & said, "I'll come to your party..'
Ane he smiled.
They took with them a theft of alcohol, the dollar bills they left didn't
really pay for the pleasant cold of partial, inviting oblivion in which the
would soon be immersed.
The party was a delight, she had smoked borrowed cigarettes, and her Man did
not seem to mind her in it's quiet contemplation. She had decided to find
and scantly pay for a pack of her own... later, as they came home, through
the suburbs of far-away Manhattan. They were on her bed, him sweaty and
contained within her thighs... How easy was it for her to forsake all men in
theory, but this her fourth casual fuck, suckled her like an adult kind of
thing, it's corruption fading away to the real night-time of black nighttime
nothingness, called immensely something as contained many stars in it's
setting. He felt so good, like jerking with an ice-pop, rhythmically inside
her, it melts to near-nothing, yet when she's done she'll have a whole man
on her hands, and the wide open possibility it offered. Then protected again
she shifted from Bogart back to Bacall, living again in the safety of a
man...
"I've thought of you my whole life," she said.
"& I've waited.."
"Beyond you," she thought there's nothing...
"But the Stars," he said.
She wore a new dress. It took time in the dressing room for her to feel
confident enough to emerge, and site herself in the wide and tall mirrors.
Her husband had given her seventy dollars that morning, as he knew how lucky
she felt in wearing a new dress.
She saw herself framed within the confines of the mirror, and posed like a
fresh ingenue, a quiet Aphrodite, on a shell, not em-beached, but as if on
stage, before all her adoring crowd, living again almost precariously, but
again under the male stage-manager's protection.
"I've taken you to new heights in this play," he said.
"I know, I know, it's wonderful..," she thought aloud...
"They're coming back stage to take your picture & for an interview..."
"Tell them I await them eagerly, & with bating breath," and she wondered..,
what have I lost...
Back in the store the lady said, arriving from behind said, "It looks so
good on you."
"My husband," she thought aloud in safety, "he gave it to me..." She had
chosen the color for the bright white waves that stood behind her, as her
husband, husbanded her away from her new budding independence, and thought
of other pretty women, and a new wide, shining season, back to the safety of
His new blooms of the more familiar Spring of his arms.
Back on stage again, more in her imagination now she wondered again, what
have I lost.
In her new dress, the very day she bought it, she had sipped her drink to a
glass half full to a glass half empty & placed it down on the kitchen table
before her... Suzanne Vega's "Small Blue Thing," played on the college radio
station of a Kindred woman playing that she so seldom ever missed, as
coincidentally she turned the tall blue glass slowly in her hand. She didn't
notice, but it was as if Suzanne Vega's imagination was framing her, in
song, as if there and then, and it was all about her, and their mutual love
between two Women.
Her husband entered through the front door, often times entering through the
back, as he knew that she spent most time in the kitchen, seated at the
table.
She sat not barefoot, in her blue pumps, but pregnant..., and in her new
dress, the occasion ripe for telling him. She thought of champagne, G & H,
Mumms in the refrigerator, saved for good times, and thought of the cork
firing, hitting the stark white kitchen ceiling, and bouncing safely off &
away.
He seemed to linger there for a step in the foyer, & walked through the
hall, and coming in.
She rose to take his hands, and he held her back, at arm's length, to admire
her figure and, within her new dress.
"Beauty can be bought so cheaply," he commented, looking her over
appreciatively, "I think again to lend you seventy more dollars."
Lend, she thought.., but with the censor of her smile, that word faded
away...
He had put on the air-conditioning, as it was Summer, and they lit a fire as
well in artful smoldering passion, & they wiled the night away, prolonging
it, like a lingeringly type-written rain storm. She felt like "Hero" Imelda
Marcos, as dressed with her circle of affluent lady friends, in fur coats,
and she imagined them all placed in a pile for herself and her husband ot
make love on, wonderfully in front of the fire place. Yet without the coats,
the space was much to hard for her back, and his elegant weight upon her.
The TV stood quietly muted, and she considered Him glancing at it
intensively, as his eyes smiled & and he looked back to her, and beyond the
artificial frame of artful moving pictures of TV. "The news he said. I
wanted to see how our mutual funds are doing, " but the show "The Medium"
was droning.
Patricia Arquette, he thought... In her Saintly blondness, she used to
represent an ideal women for him. Nicholas Cage had been very lucky, while
possessing her with her exotic French girl looks, like a careful Princess.
But he looked again to his wife, as an aging Princess near, to become soon a
Queen, with them to rule forever, or until death due they part...
"Have you been watching this?," he beckoned to the television.
"Some," she said. "Patricia Arquette really carries the show, while a solid,
yet typical production makes the rest of it good enough." She thought of the
times watching, when her husband was working late, and she thought of an
Academy Award broadcast years back, where Nicolas Cage received an Oscar for
his role in "Leaving Las Vegas," & how Patricia Arquette had cried, in
support, and possibly also in regret, like Nicolas Cage had been somehow
eclipsed her femaleness, while she had been quietly been pining for her own
Oscar, and probably for something much, much more. Does she have anything
left, after her breakup with Cage, yet in "The Medium" her character seemed
to still have lots of steam, which must realistically translate to
Arquette's life & beyond...
She had been swimming off in the distance, but still safely along the shore,
before she met her husband, but what would have happened, while wading,
acclimating herself to the cool water, before plunging, and then swimming
straight out, until the Life Guard's whistled protests faded quietly from
her ears, perhaps swimming far off to Africa, possibly some very mysterious
lands beyond. Yes, she'd be very tired, but would she emerge again as Bogart
& not Bacall from the waters, planting her foreign, feet & flag upon the
rolling hills of some new shore..?
"I used to love Patricia Arquette," he said gazing back to the television
set, "yet I don't at all need her now, now that I've have you."
She thought for a moment, daydreaming about The Stage, again, yet smiled at
her handsome husband pleasantly & thought of the freedom of having once
again smoking cigarettes in the quiet confidence of a Virginia Slims model,
breathing out imaginary smoke... Bogart, she thought & smiled slightly,
sadly, her beauty drawing her husbands eye again from the fading fantasy of
Patricia Arquette and the flickering white lights of television beyond, &
back to the face of his wife.
"Your beauty will never fade," he said happily and she squeezed his hand
firmly and softly, absently & smiled, the stage of her daydream had
faded-forest-from her mind, much to far to find, & she paused to recall, to
remember it's freedom, but realized that she had been missing nothing,
nothing really, but thinking again of the Sweetness & adoring qualities of
the ideal, romantic look of Suzanne Vega, the gentle waves of The Sound and
the Blue Pier One glass turning slowly, slowly, slowly turning, turning in
her hand...