Cookie dough is a pain the ass, he thought, swirling the spoon around in the bowl some more. He couldn't complain. This was what lazy afternoons were made for. Baking with the babies. Who gave two shits about Diabetes?
DAAAAAAAAAAADDYYYYYYYYYYY. SOMEONE AT THE DOOOOOOR FOR YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU.
Sunday visitors was the sound his eyes made as they rolled far into his head. The bowl sat on the bar, giving company to his Scotch. He made his way to the door.
17 years. This face was a memory older than his daughters.
"It's good to see you."
Yes. Yes, it is.
"Guess I should be going now."
Guess you should.
"...You haven't changed."
Only to you.
"That's enough for me."
That's fair enough.
She turned and walked. He turned and downed his Scotch, as their voices stormed in his ears, begging to know who she was, and singing of how pretty, and if she would come back for cookies.
How do I say who she is, when I still don't know her name...
I know it tires you, that my fingers are so relentless. Constantly pulling at your strings, making you scream. My cold hands know of no heat greater than your soft tones, or a deeper hue than the brown of your hair.
I wish I knew how deep your well was, so I could know when to stop drawing.
He brings the tune to a close, and her scent wafts in. Eleven months have passed since he last tasted her skin. Where is this smell, this sensation hiding, and how is it so close to me, he wonders.
He awoke in silent chambers, windows open, whispers chasing the morning light. He thought he saw her skirt skid around the corner, but he couldn't be sure. The night before, she had raised a finger to his lips. He kissed her shoulderblades, and waited for the rain to stop. When it refused, she held him till she fell asleep, and his body burst into flames. She doused the rage with glacial eyes.
He wonders how far she's gotten. He stands at the door, pretending to chase her. When she does not appear, he gives up.
It was an odd question to ask at that point in time, I mused. What time was it? It did not matter. It certainly wasn't the right time. If there ever was a right time.
"We will have to see."
It was as much honesty as could be afforded. She wrangled her shape into curves and crevices, open and inviting. She called, and I came.
"I have always loved you."
I wished, deep down, that it was as true as she made it seem.
"And I you."
I let her wrap arms, legs, hair, and mind around me, holding me still so I could weep, and she could breathe. I wept till she let me, and she purred in delight. When I stopped, she kissed my brow, and blew her stale breath in my face.
We slept quietly, as the fires raged on outside our windows.
"Stitch for me a melody, sire, in your favourite key."
"Why must your musical euphemisms always be so mundane?"
"Hmph. Fine. I want you to write me a song."
"Sure. Care to name a mood? My key is Bminor. it's suited to sadness."
"...It does not become you, this constant melancholy."
"It does not become you, this attachment, or concern."
"I'll write you your song, but I'll write it once you're gone."
"I shall be waiting."
Mornings became too sombre, breakfast a lonely affair. He hummed a reticent tune, a song tired of waiting. It waved through hollow corridors, and sat on a breeze, carried to her estranged ears. The ears he kissed every time his eyes came undone.
"That's very kind of you to say. I hoped you would too."
"I'm not doing anything. Nobody's waiting for me. I've got nothing pressing coming up. Could you accompany me?"
"...What do you know, you're definitely some sort of crazy, too."
"Can I take that as a yes?"
They came together. After lying silent, held, he got up to put his clothes back on, and to look out the window; she sat up to light a cigarette, and watch a silhouette press up against the grey sky and button up its shirt.
He sang a short tune to himself.
"It's painful to listen to you sing."
"It'll stop soon, worry not."
"You skew your notes."
"No, it's that....it's just so raw. You sing from your heart. You're singing it right. But your heart, it pours itself out into your voice. It's painful"
"...I don't know what to say to that."
"So are we just strangers?"
"If you would remember, I was ready to give my name. You told me no."
"So does that make it four now?"
"What do you mean?"
"With them, it's sex. With you, it's much more fragile. Delicate."
"Who is she?"
"That one. That won't have you."
"A ghost. Smoke. Bees buzzing angry at your window. She's your shadow, much as she is mine."
"...Will you come back?"
"I think I should leave now."
"You are infuriating."
"I might as well be. You don't know me after all."
She sits up to watch his back shrink into the morning light. She smokes another cigarette, and stretches into comfort.
He measures heavy paces, as her question still trails in his ear.
"Will you come back?"
This is important, but there are far more important questions, he thinks. Questions such as, he says to her, inaudible over the distance between them, will you come back......