Ask The Right Question

Late Winter

He woke up to the smell of coffee. She was already in the kitchen, trying to be as quiet as possible. He stood  there and watched her as she pulled two cups from the cabinet. She was still in her night clothes, disheveled and strangely childlike in her over-sized t-shirt.

It was dark in the kitchen. The light came from the hallway. It illuminated her skin in a way that made him think of bronze statues. He had dreamed about a garden last night, one overgrown with ivy and roses and cracked fountains. He had dreamed she was a nymph, her face turned away but her body trying to move towards him, and she was a gleaming copper at first, but the closer he came to her, the more the metal aged. The patina growing darker, her luster fading.

The sound of the coffee cup breaking on the floor brought him out of the memory.

"You scared the hell out of me." She wasn't really mad. She never really got mad. He bit his bottom lip, hard.

"I'm sorry. I'll clean it up." He walked over to help her up. She had already picked up most of the pieces. As she turned around to walk over to the trash, she yelped. She had stepped on a shard. The blood came fast and even in the darkened kitchen, it was a bright spot on the floor.

He helped her limp over to the kitchen table and proceeded to get a towel to clean her foot.

He grabbed the white hand towel from the counter and pressed it against the wound. The blood soaked through and he could feel it on his thumb as he applied pressure.

"I'm so clumsy." She grimaced as he continued to clean her up.

Her voice went over him. An irrelevant sound. There was just a pulse in his head, like that noise you hear when you hang upside down too long. The sun had finally come in through the kitchen window and was making her skin glow. The towel was soaked through.

"I'll finish making the coffee." He got up and put the towel in the sink. He could hear her limping into the bathroom. He turned on the tap and watched the cold water run over the towel. Suddenly he realized he was starving.

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This Spring - Beginning of April


"Honey, you really need to go to the doctor." She stood behind him. He was in his chair in the room they called the library, staring out the window at rain just beginning to fall.

He had been sick for weeks. Nothing extreme, just lethargic, unable to eat well. He was beginning to lose his hair. His skin was dry and grey.

"It's fine. I just have the flu or something." They had had this conversation repeatedly for the past week. His response was mechanical. Her sigh was expected. He waited for her to speak again. Part of him longed for her to ask him what was wrong. Part of him dreaded it.

But for the most part he was disappointed that all she could do was suggest. Comply. Agree. Vaguely wonder. But never ever ask him, directly, what was wrong.

He could feel her still behind him. Then she walked out of the room.

He could still smell her in the air. The scent of her perfume. Her heat. Her confusion.

Thunder in the distance was an echo of the pulse in his mind. He closed his eyes and hoped to dream about the garden again.

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Mid-May

The dream was brighter now. The garden was a jungle, verdant and alive with sound and colour. All the roses were in full bloom, red and wet and dripping with the claustrophobic humidity. She was a nymph, her face turned away. Her body warm and inviting. He could taste her. She filled him completely. Her skin was hot against his mouth. A nuclear heat that destroyed him. He pressed her body against the garden wall. She was trapped beneath him. He could feel the bones of her hips press into him. She was whispering in his ear.

"What are you doing? You need to be resting."

He opened his eyes and looked at her, frightened and confused next to him in bed. He had his hand on her throat, gently, but with enough pressure to wake her up.

She was afraid and trembling and when he took his hand from her neck he could smell her sweat on his skin.

"Tell me what I can do to help you."

He shook his head and rolled over. She didn't even ask questions anymore. He shut his eyes and forced himself back to sleep.

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The Last Summer


He kept the lights off all the time now. She was beginning to grow impatient. Finally a touch of anger was prevalent in her voice. He knew she was starting to hate him. To hate the life they had now. He hadn't spoken in weeks. He stayed in the chair in the library. Looking at a window that was perpetually curtained.

He could feel the strength leaving him. It was nearly gone. Perhaps there was one last movement. The one that was always there, waiting to be used. Because it knew its time was coming. Whether he wanted it to or not.

She came into the room. On her knees in front of him, she leaned close to his face and touched his cheek.

She smelled so good, he thought. Red, hot, wet roses, dripping in the garden. Sunlight on her bronze legs.
Beads of sweat rolling down her neck, pooling in the hollow of her throat. He couldn't resist it. The images came because they wanted to, because they needed to.

She put her hand on his chest.  And then she did it.

"Please. Please tell me what's wrong. What can I do to make you better?"

The pulse in his head throbbed into a tangible burst of shimmering light. Her face was turned away from him, but her body was moving towards him, pressed into his. He could feel her inside him, coursing through his veins. Moving like water through a cracked fountain, spilling over the edge, leaking through the cracks.

An image of her, the statue in the garden. No longer a living warm metal, but now marble. Cold and pale and eternal. Along with all the others.

Hey, kids.

I haven't updated this in a while. I apologize.

Also, I apologize for how whiny and stupid the previous posts were.

So....let's start over.

Yep.

Ok. Anyway.

Well nothing much has happened. I'm still loud and obnoxious and silly. I'm a little less public about it all, but hey, I guess I'm old now. 30 isn't fun. 

So what I'm going to do from now on here, is try to post more of my writing. I feel this is probably a better place to put it then that facebook place. Maybe people will read it here. Wait. Do people still read? 

Well, I guess we'll find out. Stay tuned for more stupid Manda stuff.