The television uttered garbled idioms; hypnotic suggestions that died futilely within his unheeding ears as the pictures flickered and distorted, as ghostly figures shouted and gestured wildly. False prophets with smiling voices warned of a doom that had long since transpired, while carefully calculated avatars whispered lies that amused him because of their blatancy, their opaque facade of craftiness meant for the lemmings that leaped off cliffs of credibility daily at their request.
Guy labored on.
The antique clock tolled while he was engrossed in scrubbing his kitchen tiles with a toothbrush. A leering jester popped out, laughing manically.
It was 2:00 p.m.
Guy’s smile died. He stood up and approached nearby table.
Weapons were laid across it.
Rifles, pistols, daggers, and other deadly instruments waited for his selection. Specially modified personally for his…tasks.
A scarred, rusted vintage key hung from the leather cord that he picked up. He slipped the medallion over his neck before hefting an antique dagger. The haft was black and carved with ravens.
He stared at it with unfocused eyes. The tick of the clock echoed. The jester continued its hysterical laughter.
The large duffel bag landed in the passenger seat with a metallic sound. Guy dumped himself in the driver’s seat and cranked the ignition. The engine growled to life as though angry at being rudely awakened, and his ’66 Mustang shot forward out of his driveway.
His haven faded in the rear view mirror as he joined the wildly careening ranks of vehicles on the city streets. The sun fled, on its way to the other side of the world where the air would be fresher, perhaps.
Guy sighed and rolled down the window.
The city and traffic noise immediately invaded, but he kept the window down anyway. It was better that way. It was better to feel it, to taste it first.
That way he knew what was coming.
Effulgence
Michael McDonald blinked in the photo flash brilliance of sudden sunlight. He groaned, trying to burrow into the white mounds of therapeutic pillows in a vain attempt to recapture the fading ghosts of dreams that trickled like mist through fingers.
“It can’t be time already…”
“You’re going to be late.” Cynthia stood in all her unclad glory, a Bond-girl silhouette against the glare of intruding light from the blinds she had just opened. The sun kissed her skin and cast glimmers in her reddish gold hair as she tumbled beside him.
He smiled as he skated over the smooth curve of her hip lightly with his fingertips. She returned the smile almost shyly, a contradiction to her flaunted nakedness, one that never ceased to thrill him. He could fill it spread, the warm ripple of wanting that flowed and pulsed until it gathered to that particular location and extended…
He looked down to the obvious evidence of his arousal. “Aw, look at what you’ve done. Don’t want to waste good wood, do we?”
“That would be a shame, wouldn’t it?” Her hand strayed that direction as she kissed him, her mouth open for his tongue despite its newly woken flavor. After a few precious moments she pulled back with an apologetic smile. “Baby… you know…”
“I know,” he said. “Daddy’s got to go make a living.” He sat up and stretched, taking in her slender back, the way her hair swung as she rose off the bed. For the thousandth time, he wondered how he got so lucky. Cynthia was the kind of girl that guys like him only talked about in wistful tones, like million dollar mansions or sailing around the world. But she had responded to his every stumbling effort like an angel of goodwill, had supported him through times when even he hated himself.
He smiled and shook his head. “I’m a lucky man, you know that?”
She gave him a coy glance over her shoulder. “You better believe it.”
Morning had long since departed, and the afternoon followed its example. He was almost late, but if he drove like a madman he would barely squeak in on time. Cynthia had pulled one of his shirts on and quickly put a lunch/dinner in his tote so he wouldn’t have to make of meal of the candy bars and sodas the break room offered. She claimed that stuff made him fat. She was probably right — his metabolism hardly put up a fight these days. He was mildly disturbed at the protrusion in his profile, the rounded forewarning of the gut to come. Maybe he would start working out again. Cynthia liked it when his muscles had definition.
He’d do it for her.
One more lingering kiss, then he hopped in his Honda Accord and took off. He remembered the time when going to work was like dental surgery, before he met Cynthia. Now his perspective had completely flipped. They had a pair of cars, and had just moved into their first house. A family was next; they’d spent a lot of time talking about it. He smiled.
Traffic was a breeze for once, and he sailed across with the windows down and the radio on. He hoped things would go well at work, but if they didn’t… that was all right too. It was eight hours either way, then he’d come back to Cynthia. Maybe they would work on making that baby again tonight.
Inelegant Rapture
Frumpy.
That was Fran's word for the day. It was the perfect word, really… a singular expression that summed up the whole of her entirety. It was certainly how she felt, as she gathered calories sitting in front of the computer while her brain dissolved from mind-numbing data entry. It described her bland sweater and slightly wrinkled pants, a combination that fit no style she could think of except… frumpy.
Her hair was certainly frumpy… dirty blonde and scattered on her head so badly that her hairdresser looked disgusted every time she came in. Her mother had always said her looks hadn't passed on to her daughter. Fran sighed. Even in her coffin her mother looked like an aging Hollywood star, while Fran just looked… frumpy.
The pile of paperwork hadn't shrunk in the last hour, and the sample cans needed shelving, and the test tubes needed washing… but all that could be done in the morning.
Admit it, you're just waiting for Michael to show up.
She pushed her glasses up on her nose as she observed the girl in the reflection of the glare off the computer screen; the pudgy face spattered with a buckshot blast of freckles, the stupid lovesick grin that perfectly displayed the slightly crooked front tooth.
The grin quickly faded.
Michael McDonald. The bright light at the end of her workday tunnel. She sometimes felt ashamed of how she looked forward to seeing him. She always found a reason to stay over a couple of hours until he came in with the first sample. He would smile and ask how she was doing. He'd make her laugh at something silly, something only made funny because he was so charming…
Of course she knew he was only being polite, only being himself… why would he ever look at a frumpy girl like her when he had that model-looking chick to go home to every night? He'd shown her the picture. She had died inside when she saw how his face lit up for the girl in the photo, the glow that would never be for her.
It was strange how his devotion to his lady made him even more attractive, stirred her imagination of him gazing at her with those crystal blue eyes while pouring out his love and affection.
It almost made her sick when the fantasy exploded as it always did. The train wreck of reality rumbled through with the annoying sound of the phone ringing. She picked up; made appropriate noises in reply to queries she couldn't care less about. Outside her narrow window the sky darkened as monstrously thick clouds gathered almost impossibly fast.