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She sits at the table, incessantly
jiggling her leg up and down, up and down. Anyone watching her would assume she
had no worries, except for that leg. Her expression remains serene, and her
other movements, the ones visible above the table, have an unhurried and calm
energy.
He stands across the room, staring at
her. From his angle, he cannot see that leg moving up and down, up and down.
All he sees is her expression, and her long graceful fingers lifting a mug to
her lips. Knowing her as well as he does, he knows she is drinking tea, not
coffee.
As he approaches, the little details
of her appearance become clearer. First he sees the shape of her eyes, her
lips, her nose. Then the eye color appears, the light flush of her cheek, the
arch of her eyebrows. Finally, when he reaches the table, he sees her freckles,
the slight chapping of her lips, her long dark eyelashes. He finds her
beautiful.
She feels him approaching but never
turns. In her mind, she fills in his details. The dark gray-blue of his eyes. His
large hands, which hers only fit because of the absurd length of her fingers.
The light brown of his feathery hair. She, too, finds him beautiful. But his is
a deadly beauty.
He sits down across from her. She
glances at him, allows a brief smile that seems more smirk than anything else,
and takes another sip of her chamomile. Neither speaks until the waitress comes
over, and then he orders tea as well. As the waitress walks off, they return to
their silence. She stares out the window. He stares at her, but constantly
glances away for fear that she will notice or that he will say something he
shouldn't.
The waitress returns, sets his cup
down, and leaves again. As he stirs a spoonful of sugar into the tea, he
finally opens his mouth.
"Well ... hello."
She smirks again.
"Hello. I wasn't sure you'd come."
He smiles nervously, clutching his
mug.
"I almost didn't. You're making
me nervous. Why did you want to meet?"
She sighs. Picks up her cup. Goes to
take a sip and changes her mind. Sets it back down. Her mind returns to the
last time they met.
They laughed. Effortless repartee filled
any and every silence. It differed from this meeting in so many ways. The only similarity
is that they are both here, with unacknowledged feelings bubbling under every
glance and every word. She misses the ease they used to share, but does not
want it back.
When she finally looks up at him, he
appears vaguely impatient, but his expression clears when he sees the pain
reflecting in her eyes. Without warning, he leans forward and takes her hands
in his. Though she knows she should pull away, she does not. She is weak, and she
wants his wonderfully warm hands on her perpetually cold ones.
"You are trying to manipulate
me." She looks away, back out the window. The sea glints in the sunlight,
waves moving laconically.
Offended, he pulls away.
"Whatever do you mean?"
"You know."
"I do not. Stop trying to come
across as the victim."
Her eyes flash angrily. "I am the victim. So is she. You are the perpetrator. No amount
of denying it will remove the blame."
He flinches away from her irate glare,
but he speaks in a direct tone.
"I gave you every opportunity to stop.
You were the one who wished to continue."
"Were you a better man, you would
not have left the decision up to me. You would have done what was right. But
you're selfish."
Twisting the mug in his hands crossly,
he scowls at the table. "So are you."
"Did I ever deny it?"
He sighs. "No. You admitted it
freely."
"And you continually put it onto
me to decide. All you really wanted was to have both of us."
"Is that so wrong?"
"It is when you won't tell her.
If I hadn't already known about her, you wouldn't have told me."
His expression darkens. "You
don't know that."
She gives a scornful laugh.
"I do."
Silence falls again, and she returns
her gaze out the window, to the ocean. He stares at the ceiling. She is right,
and he knows it. As usual, she sees straight through him. He had only hoped
that she wouldn't notice this until it was far too late. Until she was
desperate.
She watches the brief flashing of a distant
dolphin fin. At this moment, she feels as though she can hear every word he has
ever spoken to her, and she wonders if he only said those things in an attempt
to seduce her. It is quite possible he feels nothing, and she must prepare
herself for that revelation. Never has she let a man get the best of her, and
she will not start now.
"I meant everything I said,"
he tells her softly. Though he doesn't know for sure that's where her thoughts
are, he thinks it probable. Her expression is too cold to suggest anything
else.
"That is highly unlikely,"
she replies.
She stands up and stares down at him.
He looks scared, desperate, and ever so slightly relieved.
"Goodbye."
She leaves.
He stares at her mug. The tea is only
half gone, the light yellow of it reflecting the butter color of the sunlight.
It is over. She didn't even say his name, and
he knows she will never say it again.
Gulping
his tea, he burns his tongue. It is all he feels.
Such a beautiful piece. The intrigue makes me want more - why were they sitting there, what had happened between them in the past, who exactly were they? The dialogue is rich and beautiful, and the descriptive parts conjure vivid scenes with a skilful fluidity. Loved every minute of it. :)
ReplyDelete*blushes*
ReplyDeleteThanks, Alexandra. Your comments, as usual, are wonderful. You know, I'd love to read something of yours as well. I'll gladly agree to the stipulations you gave to Mary. I'm pretty good with grammar, so I can help with that as well as with the usual stuff :) Just shoot me an email; the Contact Page has my various email addresses (although I check the gmail one more frequently).
Thanks for the offer! I'll send you the excerpt that I'm wanting to enter in next year's ABNA if you don't mind. Hope you'll like it.
DeleteOf course I don't mind! And if you write half as well as you critique (I read the ones you did for the people who made it through this last round), I'm sure I'll love it.
DeleteThis is somewhat random, but I wanted to know what the girl was wearing. I'm picturing a sundress, but I'm not sure if that works with the nervous leg twitch. I'm trying to figure out what sort of outfit would hide that over the table.
ReplyDeleteHm. I never really thought about that before. She probably IS wearing a sundress, a yellow one with knitted lace at the top.
Delete