Falling Away With Ire
'I used to eat Smuckers a lot when I was younger. Now when I eat peanut butter and jelly it doesn't taste quite as good I don't think.'
There wasn't much that she could do about that certain aspect. Life didn't smell like peanut butter should smell. Of course, perhaps that is simply due to the multi-scope, enterprising capitalizing and any other word- those food manufacturers. After all, nothing seemed to be natural. A package of some sort is shoved into your body, which apparently tastes really good, but would you really want to put it into your body? I doubt anyone would want to.
Now, in spite of all that Dolly did not really care. Dolly was going swimming, and she couldn't be bothered with trifling items that she had no way to help. So what if her food tasted good? She tried to keep it natural but, it became a real nuisance to consider constantly. She had beautiful green eyes and was truly- a sparkling diamond. What did it bother her what other people did? She wanted to go to England and find a really hot man for herself. She wanted someone with longish hair who ran his own band of sorts- she did not have time for any of this nonsense.
As Dolly lay on the bed with her eyes turned upward in a stargazing portrayal, with a very serene cross of her body in a dreamy, provocative manner, a usual opening sound of entering, chased away her pose. She sat up abruptly, as there was no point now, in keeping her relaxed state, since he didn't like it. The black-cloaked figure stopped short at her dangerously, languid green orbs. She rubbed a thumb delicately over her voluptuous lips, dipping it gently in and out of her saliva. Although he stared at her for a minute she could not read his opinion until his face turned steely, meanness flitting across his dignified, handsome but, perhaps haughty she should think, face. He glared at her, and then his lips formed into a snarl.
"What are you doing here?"
"I might ask you the same question," Dolly said, in a voice that was ironically unsettling then due to that eerie effect of opposition. It carried some kind of strange power. He made an ironic bow.
"Of course, I shouldn't trouble you."
"Wait," she said, her voice barely above a whisper as he turned to go. "What happened?" This time, when he turned to pin her with his entire persona, more flitted across his face, than she cared to see, so, she didn't. Then a small smile graced her lips, and it was shielded once more, from her privilege.
"Nothing that should concern you." Something in her voice moved her to remark, but, curiously guardedly,
"I am interested to know." There was a pause. His back was turned from her once again. Long and white fingers gently stroked the washed out, faded wall next to him. He shrugged.
"I was ordered to take an MRA." She though there had been some- weird occurrence- thought there had been a changed behavior. All those nights.
He walked out of the room.
I never wanted to think about it, she mused to herself, as her feet once again hit the wall behind her, while her eyes took their position stargazing at the ceiling. That is just how things are. Why did they burden me with this man for the summer? He is simply an ugly, persnickety man who happens to know poetry remarkably well, his English compliments that polished creative gene in a broad sense, for he does understand it- extraordinarily. He's been educated in finer circles, but I'm sure that I shall have the great, unparalleled pleasure of doing that- I'll be making that circle soon, myself, promptly, and then I will be more fit than the most refined men and women, and I shall have my share of being the most distinguished writer that ever walked. Annoying little voice you are, in my head, preposterously but charmingly mischievous. You'll be hidden though, soon, in spite of that you might be enticing. I will not have you trying to shame me. I will be a famous writer. And, well that really isn't the point. I shall be better than that old coot in my living room.
He's fiercely handsome, said another voice in her head reasonably. Her eyes lost that dreamy look, something hardening her features. She brushed away the thought.
A noise from the kitchen aroused her again.
Fool, she whispered, but followed the noise, for it sounded as though something had broken. As she reached the shaft of light from which he was standing within the space that she wanted to avoid she supposed that she wouldn't want to go into any area where he was- she was again met with his back. In his left hand, though, an item of broken glass quivered between his thumb and forefinger. Chips of the lips were in the process of scattering across the linoleum. His back was rigid. He didn't seem as though he was in the- mood- should she say, for company. Yet something wasn't in its proper form here, that is to say, something was not right.
"Abast." He did not turn, nor give any sign that he was . . . mentally present. Dolly strode up to the stiff man. His face had turned solid white, almost like he was wearing a blanket. The blood seemed like it was throbbing beneath its surface however.
"What in the world is wrong?" Dolly spat. Her voice crackled with anger.
She back-tracked. What in the world made her say it like that? I have been oddly temperamental, she thought. His deep black eyes, purple shade just almost, brushed her gently. Those black eyelashes were surprisingly soft.
"I- I'm sorry," Dolly forced out. "I did not think," she took a deep breath. Something compelled her to take one of his shoulders.
"You've got a long life ahead." Her mouth twitched. He was about to go on some kind of tangent. Even when he was underneath a raging of some kind of stress, he blew out color and fascination. Various and sundry rainbows of colorful words! His dark eyes almost seemed to sparkle in his new trek into creative fancy.
"No. Abast. Tell me why you have a broken glass in your hand. Never mind about my future." She waved a hand. He lowered his gaze to the shattered cup. Slowly a red hint started to trickle down over his white, aristocratic features.
"I- don't know what caused it." He looked at his glass dubiously, before his lips thinned speedily into a white line. The red on his face crept toward his collar-bone. "I guess it was a sudden headache," he said rapidly. He stared at Dolly for a moment without speaking, although she was glued to his eyes for some reason. She had absolutely no idea what possessed him. His face was white once again. He walked out, leaving the glass where he'd sought it.
She shrugged to herself.
"Sorry." If the man was in pain, what was she to do about it?
"Ooooh! That, and that, and that!" Brutally, she started tossing her poetry and manuscripts all across the room. "You foolish nonsense!" she yelled. Dolly had been quietly writing in her chamber for about an hour, the clock ticking to her energies, before striking twelve. At its chime, her heart wrenched upon her browsing review of her time. Now she employed her efforts better in its destruction. She did not hear the door opening to her left, its noise subdued behind her rage. "And that!" she screeched. Quickly scooping it up in her hands, she took the scripts over to the fireplace. She was about to throw them into the flames. She rapidly-
turned. Tears in her green eyes glistened.
"Please. Don't try to stop me." Her voice, taut with anger and distress, reached him. He crossed quickly over to her in a swoop of black. He stood directly before her and pinned her with his black gaze. She was breathless with fury, and tried to force down her utter humiliation that grew with her shaking hand, poised gracefully over the fire. Gracefully. Tears began coursing down her cheeks. She brought both hands up and spun away from him. He maintained his silence. In a couple of moments, this was entirely unnecessary. Dolly's little sister, being chased by her much larger playmate, tore through the area in some sort of rogue game of tag. Hollers and screams from the twisted version of their game interrupted the exchange. They were out of the room as quickly as they had come, but it was enough for Dolly to regain her full composure. She cast her professor one last, fleeting glance before leaving.
He started as the phone rang.
"Hello?" He listened for a moment. The color quickly drained from his face. After another minute of silence he let out his breath in one long, muted whoosh. "I understand." He might have been a rock cut out from the wall behind him.
"I didn't hear you come in."
"Abast . . . what's wrong?" Dolly was still hugging her scripts to her, but her mind seemed diverted for the present. They spoke ambiguity to him. He wondered briefly if she regretted missing his response to her little scheme. Did she covet his assistance?
"I um- Dolly- " he bit his lip. Then he placed a hand on her shoulder, steering her towards the couch. "This is going to come as a bit of a shock to you, but I'm going to have to leave your dwelling." Dolly took a minute to absorb this.
"Why?" She tried to analyze his features.
"Because I need to attend to a child."
"What?" Her voice represented total disbelief. He bowed.
"I shall be back if I am ever . . . invited." He allowed a small sneer to form.
"Fine," she said, huffily. "I don't want you here anyway. Nothing but a- " Suddenly her speech was halted by the most unlikely force, as he grabbed her face, and planted a thick kiss directly on her mouth.
"I love you," he whispered. Then he was gone.
She stared off into space for a shocked remainder of the evening.
A bit later Dolly knocked on her professor's door. Before he was able to call out an answer, she walked in without hesitation. Standing resolutely, she stood in front of his body arching over upon the bed. He long black hair hung in a curtain with a deliberate purpose, she mused, to shadow his face. Somewhat reluctantly, Dolly sat down next to him. Silence permeated.
"You do care, don' t you?" She started at his question. She crossed her arms over her own chest, lowering her head. A query of her own on her tongue nearly became twisted up. For an inexplicable reason, her eyes stung a bit. As her fingers slowly wove some kind of imaginary circle in a fluid motion over her legs, she spoke, not quite sure of herself.
"That phone call- it's why your leaving, isn't it?" She lifted her head.
"Yes." She laid a gentle hand on his. She withdrew it immediately. Neither of them seemed to know what to say, although why this odd connection should have existed between them she did not understand either, for, did she not always despise his presence? Why then this strange-
"Goodbye," she whispered, in a gulp that sounded as though it were a bit choked. As red washed her white features, the shame creeping up her entire body, she did not feel strong enough to survive one, simple minute here with this person. Why was she feeling this? She was not this weak. She was strong . . . proud. When she gained the threshold, he called out,
"Wait." She stopped, and rigidly forced herself to turn. "Wait," he whispered. His black eyes met hers. "If I do not return . . . my dear Dolly," his words trickled over an imaginary line that she could not identify, one which inexplicably frightened her in what it could mean. She detected the rushing whoosh, heard, the gentle timbre as it changed from normal deep reverberation, wavering a bit, as though his own vocal chords, perhaps, rebelled against this change. "Please." One word. And it may have been his last. Last one that he ever spoke to her, she -
She left the room. Never, looked back.