|
Member
Join Date: Nov 2007
Location: UK
Gender: Male
Posts: 15
|
Short story. Do you like it?
Hello all,
I posted the beggining of this a while ago, here is the finished thing.
All comments welcome (be gentle).
The front curtains were closed, filling one end of the room with soft light that reflected off the magnolia walls. At the other end of the room the curtains were open, showing a sheltered garden; beyond that fields spread level until the horizon ended with a line of trees. With his back to the window, in a faded arm chair, a middle aged man was sat reading. He held the book cupped in his hands, with an elbow resting on each chair arm. The daylight reached over his shoulders and lit the pages. He sat so still, and his plain clothes were so in tune with his plain surroundings, that he looked like just another piece of furniture.
Someone knocked at the front door. His body did not move but his mind jumped. He had been in one of those blissful trances where he read without thinking, where the pages turned by themselves, and there was no such thing as time. He sat blinking for a while, then he understood, then he sighed. Balancing his book on the chair arm, he raised himself and crept barefoot over the carpet towards the front windows. At the farthest edge, the perfect angle to see who was at the door, he parted the curtain from the wall, enough to see threw but not be seen.
The girl outside had already been today; he recognised her and knew that he wasn't going to answer again. She stood with one hand on her hip, holding her weight on one leg. Earlier her hair had been tied up, but now it hung loose down her back. From his side view her small waist and full curves were more pronounced. He felt a strange excitement watching her, his eyes going where they pleased knowing she was unaware He saw himself then and was embarrassed, so he let the gap close and crept back to his seat.
He knew why she had come back; having had time to think she wanted to argue with him, to point out all the flaws in his views. He remembered that she was the only one who had been affected by what he had said; the other two, deafened and blinded by faith, had just smiled; but she had been fired up, close to tears, and would have said her own piece if he hadn't slammed the door on them.
As the pause from her last knock grew, the balloon which had been inflating inside his stomach, shrank. When it was gone, when he was sure she had gone, he settled back into his chair, stretched his arms and picked up his book.
The pages were suddenly cast in shadow, and at that same moment there was a knock from the window behind him. He jumped again, and turned to see the girl looking at him threw the glass. For a moment he didn't know what to do, like a rabbit caught in headlights, he held her eyes and did nothing. She raised her eye brows as if to say “Yes Iv caught you, now what are you going to do?” He made a circle in the air and mouthed the words “Go around.” She nodded.
He got there before her and stood worrying in the doorway. She came round the corner of his house; as she walked towards him he noticed how her figure moulded underneath her clothes. She stopped before the doorway and folded her arms under her breasts.
“I'm not surprised you didn't want to answer... but you don't have to worry, iv not come back to argue, or to try to convert you or anything.” He thought that was exactly why she had come back. She had come alone to try and be friends, use her looks to influence him, while all the time trying to change his beliefs. He grinned his knowing grin.
“No really,” she said “its not about that, I'm not with them any more, you know... your right... I mean, I think I always knew, you know its... its just...”
“What do you want? Why are you here?” He almost winced at how his words had sounded; although he didn't trust her, he wanted her to like him. She shifted her weight and lowered a hand to her hip. His eyes followed the movement then flashed back to her face. She had seen him looking. He scratched at a non existent itch on his forehead and looked away. “Can I come in for a minute?” He looked at her and saw that she was smiling. He didn't know what to say; he thought that if he let her in she would preach to him and he would never get rid of her; but he was glad she had asked; he saw her smile and wanted to let her in.
He stepped to one side and gestured for her to enter. She edged past him and for a moment they were very close. He led her into the living room. He followed close behind her and when she reached the centre of the room she suddenly turned to face him. They had stopped quiet close and he wondered whether he should take a step backwards. His left leg was shacking. He shifted his weight and put his hands in his pockets, then shifted his weight and folded his arms. She laughed, covering her mouth.
“How old are you?”
The bluntness of the question shocked him and he wondered if he should say younger; but he knew that he looked older than he was, so the truth would sound young anyway. “I'm forty one.”
She raised her eye brows. “Really... Oh... I thought you were younger than that.”
“Well, thanks but no I'm.. I'm forty one.”
“How old do you think I am?” He looked her up and down. She laughed. “Shall I rotate for you?”
“No...no” He said and shifted his weight again “sorry I just... I...“
“Well how old?”
She looked in her late twenties, but he wanted to compliment her; he wanted it to sound genuine so he aimed only a couple of years below. “Twenty six.”
“Yes... I am... I am twenty six” She smiled “At least I don't look older.”
She took a step closer to him, again he felt very aware of how close they were; he could smell her, someone strange and new in his house. She looked at the picture of his wife on the fire place and then back to him. “Are you married?” He didn't want to say his wife was dead; he didn't want to ruin the mood, so he lied.
“No, she... she left me.” He knew later he would remember that, and it would get him then, but now he didn't care. The girls face became inviting; she relaxed her eyes and drew him in with her stare, and as she edged closer, just before they met, she whispered “Her loss.”
Afterwards they lay together on his soft carpeted floor; her head rested his chest; he was listening to her breathing and remembering all that had just happened. The girl had awakened in him feelings he hadn't felt since his wife. “I'm back,” he thought “this is me, this is the real me. What have I been doing all this time?” The other person wasn't him, the person who went threw his daily routine, the person who kept the curtains closed, the person who had almost broke down when he had burnt his morning toast; that wasn't him, that wasn't anyone.
He realised then that he didn't even know the girls name, didn't know anything about her; he was holding a stranger in his arms.
“You know... I don't even know your name” He said, and finished the sentence with a light kiss on top of her hair. He waited for an answer but none came. “well, my name's...”
“Wait... don't tell me.” Her words sounded harsh to him, almost bitter, and he understood in a second what they meant. She didn't want to know anything about him, or share anything about herself. Their time was over and now she would leave. She sat up and looked at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were mellow, she looked tired; stray strands of her hair stuck up and caught the light.
“We can learn all that stuff later... there's no rush... for now lets just stay in the moment.”
She leaned down to kiss him, her hair fell about them and sealed them in. They held their kiss and listened to each others breathing. When she separated their lips, she kept her face close, so that they were still closed in by her hair. She smiled with her eyes and he soaked it in and all that came with it. “Can I take a shower?” she whispered and kissed him again.
She got up and started collecting her clothes. He put his arms behind his head and lay watching her. When she had collected all her things she stood over him with the bundle in her arms.
“Well, are you going to show me where the shower is?” He took one last long look at her body, then he got up, and insisting that she walk in front, he led her down the hall. He watched her hips change shape as she moved, he saw without looking, her head turn to look back at him; he kept his eyes on her hips and though he couldn't see her face he knew she was smiling. After showing her how to use the shower he left her and walked back into the living room. He was very aware that he was naked. He looked down at his fuzzy chest; below that his stomach hung loose and creased. He put on his trousers and fastened them tight underneath the sagging mass. He didn't think about his body or his appearance; for a long time his main concern had been comfort; but now he looked at his drooping chest and knew that something would have to be done.
He walked over to the front windows and opened the curtains; a few cobwebs separated from the glass and hung in the air. He twisted one of the handles and was surprised to find it opened freely, as if it wanted to be open. He paid a gardener to keep the front garden tidy, and saw it as a burden because of that. It was so bright and green, he examined it now for the first time, and wondered how he could have overlooked it. “This is mine? I own this patch of nature? How long have I had this and ignored it.” He went out of the front door and walked bare foot over the grass, feeling the dry blades crush under his feet.
He circled the edge of his garden, watching insects flying about the plants that he hadn't planted and knew nothing about. He stopped and leaned on his gate. He closed his eyes and tilted his head up towards the sun; it warmed his face and he smiled at the forgotten feeling. After a long pause, he opened his eyes, leaned over the gate and looked up and down his street. The houses were all detached, they were all bungalows, and the people who lived in them were all old. He often saw people visiting them, and new some of their routines; his neighbour to the left was visited every second weekend. He had met some of his neighbours and to him they were all dead; there was no life in them but their bodies kept on living. They lived as he did, and he wondered why he had gone into that life so early.
He had a sudden and overwhelming desire to leave. To sell his house... his tomb... and leave, take her with him if she would go. He wondered if she had a job or a family, or any kind of attachments. He felt so strange about her; he could have asked her to marry him right then, without knowing a thing about her. He saw his wife; he saw her at her most beautiful; he saw her at her most vulnerable; he saw her in all the secret ways only he knew and felt his throat hardening. He breathed in and it came out shaky, but he held it back, he looked up at the sky and forced it back. He hadn't looked at the sky since he was a child, and while the moment passed he concentrated on every detail, and saw it with the same wonder he had back then.
He turned back to his house; he wondered stay and eat with him. He had four ragged cook books and wanted chance to show her his cooking skills. When he stepped into his hallway he noticed how dull it was compared to the outside; he felt disgusted by it, the walls, the floor, the whole house was dead.
Behind the bathroom door he could hear the shower. He knocked and stepped back. After a few seconds he knocked again. “Are you there?” There was no movement behind the door, and no sound disturbed the hissing water. He knocked louder this time and shouted. “Hello... its me” He paused listening to the flat hissing. He forced back the images that his mind created. “Look” he said “are you there... I... I'm coming in” He tried the handle. The moment he met the unmoving weight of the door, he knew. A sudden a jolt of nerves hit the centre of his stomach. He stepped back, raised his leg, and kicked with his full body weight. The door crunched; he kicked again and it opened, breaking off a large piece of frame from the other side.
She was gone. He saw the open window and understood at once. He pressed his back against the door frame and slid to the ground. It didn't hurt him that she had left, but that the way she made him feel had left with her. She had shown him to himself, and now he sat with his eyes closed taking a very long look. He knew he couldn't go on the way he was, there was nothing bad, but also nothing good; there was just nothing. He had to change, he had to abandon this lifeless life and go and find happiness.
He got up, turned the shower off and closed the window. For a second he paused and looked at his wrecked door frame.“I'll sell this house” he said to himself “this coffin” he looked around at the walls “then ill be free.” He pushed the front door closed as he passed by it and went into the living room. He picked up his t-shirt and slipped it over his head; in four quick steps he jumped and fell backwards into his chair. With his arms behind his head he sighed and rested his eyes on the spot where he had been with her. He sat remembering, not thinking of a person; now he saw and admired her as an object.
He knew he couldn't change anything today. It was late and soon it would be time to eat. He thought then that he could go out to eat, it could be his first step, there was a restaurant in the next town and it wouldn't take him long to get ready, and after the meal he could go to a bar. He had no sooner finished the thought when his mind flooded with doubts. What would people think about him eating alone. He saw himself in the middle of a crowded restaurant, people laughing and talking, and he alone rushing his meal so he could leave. And what about dealing with the waiter, and the menu and paying, and whether to tip. No, he knew it wouldn't be worth the trouble, and if he cooked his own meal he would be sure to like it. It was half an hour until it was time to eat. He wondered what he should do. His book caught his eye; he picked it up off the chair arm, shifted his weight until he was comfortable then cupped it in his hands and began to read. He read for a while but realised that he wasn't taking any of it in. He settled into his chair and with a slight frown began again, this time he concentrated on every word and muttered them aloud. But soon again his mind began to wander. He felt awkward; he couldn't relax. He looked over at the front windows. An insect buzzed past; he could hear birds singing and trees shifting in the breeze. He turned back to his book and after reading only one sentence he knew he wouldn't be able to read any furtherer. Groaning he raised himself from the chair and walked over to the open windows. He stood before them feeling the breeze on his face, it was still sunny but the shadows were growing long. He told himself it will be cold soon anyway and leaned forward and closed the windows, then he drew the curtains and went back to his seat.
__________________
The function of prose is to convey meaning to as many readers as possible. Style, in the sense of being unmistakably oneself, is a by-product. The more one consciously strives for it, the further away one will go from it. John Braine.
|
