Lady In Black
Posted on June 21, 2016
The weather is right for writing, and so I finally finished a tiny piece I have been working on off and on. It was inspired by a few different things, mainly an exercise I’ve been doing to try to jumpstart my writing on my blog. A writing exercise, if you will. You can see my previous story – Lady In Red – HERE. I think I have a few more ladies to write about, so don’t you worry. They’re all going to follow a color and theme I have associated with them. Let me know what you think.
When she looks at me with those eyes of hers, I feel myself burning up. My timbers start smoking, things grow unstable within my frame. But when she tilts her head sideways, and those eyes get all soft and inviting? When she turns up the corners of her mouth in a smile? That’s when the whole thing comes tumbling down around me. I look back into those green eyes of hers, the ones that pierce like diamonds, the ones being lit by the street lights, and it’s like I’m falling into another place. I can’t find purchase on anything stable or concrete. My arms are flailing. I’ve got butterflies. She’s sending me to oblivion, to the dark void of space, and all I can do is fidget with my hands and try to smile back. But she’s jammed my gears. She’s scrambled my frequencies. She’s stopped time.
We are dark stars, caught in each other’s orbits, and our galaxies are dancing just at the edges of our existence, merging, crashing. Whole planets are being destroyed, and we’re just floating there in the middle – colliding – unable to break free of the other until there’s nothing left but stardust. We smile through the destruction, dealing with the sadness of knowing that what we are experiencing is only temporary, fleeting, kinetic.
“I don’t like this,” I said, nervously stroking the backs of her fingers. I wanted her fingers to be touching me, to be racing down whatever length of exposed skin of mine she chose to light upon. She was my lucky butterfly.
“You don’t like what?” She asked, smirking. She pushed my hair out of my eyes and absentmindedly bit her bottom lip, and I blinked slightly. “Sorry,” she said. “That’s been bugging me all night. Better now.”
I sighed. “I don’t like…this. Whatever this is. I love being here with you, seeing your smile, your eyes. Everything. But I hate…going home, just to be alone. It’s really…a special kind of torture.”
“Well,” she said, placing my right hand on her left breast, underneath the collar of her blouse – her pale skin was warm to the touch. “I’m right here…right now.” She paused and looked deep into my eyes and I saw a mischievous hunger there. “Take advantage of it.” She used those porcelain fingers of hers, the ones I wanted to touch me so painfully desperately, to squeeze my own fingers around the soft flesh of her breast. My heart wanted to stop, yet pounded harder than ever as I gave in to my baser instincts.
And there was that smile again – she knew I had no willpower around her – and there I was again – burning up as I entered her atmosphere until nothing was left of me but lips and fingers and a longing for what could be, a future where there wasn’t one. Ashes. Dust. Chaos.
The night was long, and when we said our goodbyes in the early hours, I could feel the magnetic pull to her, even as she drove away – the ache in my chest I hadn’t felt in a long, long time – back when I was a different person, living a different life, a sort of waking dream.
I noticed she didn’t look back.
I walked to my own car on shaky legs and sat in the warm trickles of morning light, chiding myself for my choices. She was a fallen angel, and me – I was a class-act fuck up. It was never meant to be, and yet we both were present in the now, in the passion of the rare moments life granted to us. It was our reality.
Long nights grew even longer. Long days were excruciating. Like any addict, I didn’t do much else besides wait for her to call, wait for her to text, wait for her to send me a sign, wait for the next fix. I went about my business, but my business quickly became just passing the time until I could see those eyes, until I could hear her soft voice turn into a laugh but then take on a sensual tone all in the same breath.
We met more and more frequently, more and more passionately. She was a succubus, but I was not a man asleep – I was dead. I had died a long time ago, though there had been no funeral. It’s hard to have a funeral for a man who died not in a physical, biological way – but in a spiritual and mental sense. She was my only mourner, and in the same manner – I was there for her. We celebrated our life, whatever was left in our veins, by being with one another.
Tonight we met on a grassy beach on the edge of the city. We’d parked our cars on separate ends of the street, and met under the light of the moon. She was wearing a black dress, and her exposed skin stood out against the night and the soft fabric of her dress, in stark contrast – making her look like disembodied porcelain doll parts held together by space alone. She was staring at me with those hungry eyes again. I was dressed in a black suit, usually reserved for funerals.
“You’re so handsome,” she said, smiling.
“Well…you’re gorgeous,” I replied.
We sat in the sand at the edge of the grass, drinking wine on an old blanket, letting the ocean water lick our toes. We spoke to each other with a comfortable closeness, a camaraderie we’d established over time, and I got to see that smile of hers and I got to hear her soft laugh against the sound of the waves around us. We could tell each other anything, she and I, without judgement. The laughter came easily. The passion flowed freely. And still, the air held a bittersweet quality, of coastal flowers mixed with the tang of the sea salt. Of the two of us knowing that, as with everything, the night – and what we had – must eventually come to an end.
And so we sat among the coastal lilies, in our clothes of mourning, and tried desperately to make each other feel alive.