wanderingsoul
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Registered: 07-2003
Location: Wandering
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Untitled as of yet
The sun would be rising soon. He could feel it, could feel the first fingers of light tickling the horizon. He sighed and stretched. How long had he been sitting here, on this rock, on this ledge? He shook his head. What did it matter? A minute? An hour? What did the measurements matter?
He stood up and looked down at the river below. It was far below, so far that it looked more like a stream than a river. But it was a river, a river with a swift and sometimes deadly current. A strong river. He leaned forward and imagined himself falling, imagined the wind whistling past his ears, imagined his hair flying loose behind him, imagined his arms spreading out as if to fly—but instead of flying just surrendering to the fall. And he imagined the smile on his lips. A smile like he had once had. Joy. Anticipation. And he imagined the shattering of his body as it hit the water, the water—grown hard as glass—shattering also. And he imagined the shards mingling, becoming one for eternity. A shiver, almost sexual, ran through him. It would be so easy to just lean forward just a little more…
He sighed. But what would be the point? It wouldn’t last. The anticipation would fade. The joy would die. But he wouldn’t. And there was no longer any thrill in the game, in pretending, in imagining.
~~~~
The steps of the dance brought them together once again and he smiled down at her. And if the smile on his lips did not quite reach his eyes, he was certain she didn’t notice. He leaned in and whispered something against her ear. It didn’t matter what. It was all mechanics really. Like the dance itself. Measured steps repeated in sequence, practiced until they required no thought at all.
She blushed and turned her head away slightly, affording him an excellent view of her almost perfect profile. She was a beauty—that was unquestionable. And he appreciated beauty, in whatever form it presented itself. It was perhaps the one thing that still stirred his senses. Perhaps.
“You make me blush, sir. How can you compare my cheek to something as perfect as rose petal?”
Had he said that? He nearly laughed out loud. If his practiced words had fallen to that level of cliché, then he had best start minding his practiced steps also—or he would be finding himself on the floor in a tangle of legs and skirts.
The steps parted them once more, but only briefly, and as their hands touched again he looked down at her, his head tipped slightly to one side.
“Indeed, Miss Grayson, my apologies. As lovely and as soft as a rose petal undoubtedly is, it is little more than the basest, roughest weed when compared to your cheek.”
He moved closer to her, closer than the steps of the dance demanded, close enough to raise some eyebrows.
“I cry your pardon, my dear. I am always reduced to little more than a callow stripling when in your presence.” His voice was soft, the words nearly whispered in a tone as far removed from that of a “callow stripling” as night from day. And he was rewarded by a deepening of her blush and a brightening of her eyes that told him the answer to any questions he might have had. Not that he’d had any questions.
The music stopped and he bowed over her hand. Another mechanical gesture. As was the glance up at her from under his lashes. As was the soft kiss he placed on the back of her hand. As was the catch in his breath as he turned her hand over and pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist.
And her response was almost as mechanical, completely predictable. Her lips parted slightly, her breath quickened slightly, her pulse raced slightly. It was always the same, with all of them. Did nothing ever change?
He could hear the whispers behind him as he held her wrist to his lips for much longer than was seemly. There would be talk now, if there hadn’t been already. Whispered speculation of an offer to be made, by most. Muttered murmurings of indecent behavior, by some. He almost shrugged. Except it would have broken the tension, distracted from the sensuality of the scene. But he almost shrugged. Because what did it really matter whether he offered her his name or bedded her for one night? In less time than it took for a decent bottle of wine to age she would be nothing more than the dust on that bottle.
He smiled at her as he led her out onto the balcony amid even more whispers. It was almost a game. Almost. She looked up at him, the moonlight giving her soft brown eyes a luminous glow. He caught his breath. It was almost a game. Almost. But, god, she was beautiful! He touched her cheek and she closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek against his fingers. He felt a slight flicker of annoyance. Her eyes were where her deepest beauty lay. Open, they gave her a radiant beauty that no canvas could ever hope to capture. Closed, the beauty became two-dimensional, without depth, a pretty painting.
But as if on cue, she opened her eyes once more, restoring life to her beauty. She placed her hand over his. It was a doll’s hand, perfect and as delicate as porcelain. And he was almost surprised it wasn’t as cold. But it was warm and soft and the lightness of her touch teased his skin. His other hand slid around her waist, and he could feel the heat of her slipping into his fingers through the smooth satin of her dress. She pressed herself—or allowed herself to be pressed—against him and he bent down and brushed his lips over hers. It was a practiced kiss. A light, teasing touch of a butterfly’s wings, but at the same time slow enough to be sensual. It was a practiced kiss, but not a mechanical one. Never mechanical, not a kiss, not something so intrinsically intimate.
As his lips released hers, he pulled back slightly and looked into her eyes. Soft, luminous brown eyes—the innocent, slightly vacuous eyes of a doe. A doe’s eyes in the body of a porcelain doll. And as he opened his mouth to speak, as words of love and promise rose to his lips, he realized he couldn’t remember her name.
~~~~
Names scratched in sand, washed away by the tide. Flecks of dust blown away on the wind. How many had there been? Fifty? One hundred? One? It didn’t matter. Each one felt like the first one. And each one felt like the last one. And he felt none of them anymore. And that was the worst thing. He couldn’t remember their names. Or their faces. Or what their skin felt like against his. They were just vague scents sifting through his senses, gone before they were perfectly perceived. But loved. Oh so deeply loved. Each one so very deeply loved. He closed his eyes and tried to remember, to catch a glimpse of them, of one of them, of any of them. But again, only the barest breeze blew through his memory, only the softest scent stirred his senses. Again, gone before perfectly perceived.
~~~~
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And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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