My eternal homage to all who were in the chatroom last night, apparently talking (with y'all) got my creative fiction juices flowing. All comments, suggestions, crits welcome. (Rated for language I guess.) CL.
Mercy
The rain prickled on the back of his hands and he plucked the soggy, self-rolled cigarette from his lips, and mashed it into the grass at his feet. The downpour had slicked the wisps of his dark hair to the back of his neck, right up against the collar of his pressed, white work-shirt. It made him itch with the need to be dry in all the places he could not reach.
“You gonna throw that out?”
He scowled, and lifted his gaze to the intruder.
“Litter-bug.” But she made no move to pick it up herself.
He squashed the childish urge to stick out his tongue; it seemed she was the only one who could produce that sort of response from him; and certainly the only one who could get him to come out to a deserted park in the middle of a rainstorm. He wanted to hate her for it, but he couldn’t muster the energy.
Crossing his arms over his chest, he scowled and watched her as she moved slightly back and forth. Her slim hips, child hips, swaying. Her eyes were closed, chin slightly tilted down, and her palms faced upwards towards the bleak sky. It took him a moment to realize her lips were moving, as they were mostly concealed by her thick curtain of auburn hair, darkened cherry red by the rain.
As if she could feel the weight of his scrutiny, she fixed her now open wedgwood blue eyes on him. The edge of her small lips quirked, and she bestowed him with a mischievous glance.
“You watchin’ me?” Her eyes narrowed then.
When he didn’t answer, she raised an eyebrow, “You randy little voyeur you.”
He turned away from the heat of her gaze, and spoke- his voice raspy as if unfamiliar with speech, “We need to be going, the rain is bound to—“
She cut him off shortly, “Spoil-sport,” and opened her arms, “Dance with me.”
Long ago he had learned to pick the battles he could win; this was not one of them. He looked back to her, sopping wet, with water droplets dripping off her nose; her freckled arms stretched invitingly towards him. How could he refuse?
Slowly he stepped towards her, the squashed cigarette forgotten; even the rain an after-thought. She smiled triumphantly, sliding her hands under his coat, to fit under the hem of his shirt, nesting in the small of his back. Her hands were surprisingly warm against his skin. He sighed into the embrace, her head against his chest, and his fingers in her wet strands of hair.
“We really should go,” he murmured not knowing if she even heard him.
Silence.
The rain had started to ease, but there was still this itch to be dry. He cast a glance at his car at the edge of the park, but then chastised himself for being selfish, and turned back to the feel of her body pressed against his, and the way she fit snugly into his embrace. He rested his chin on the top of her head.
“Do you hear that?” Her voice was soft, and low barely audible, but it rumbled against his chest.
“Hear what?” he mused.
“That… music.” She hummed a few notes.
It was unfamiliar to his ear. “Sorry, no.”
“That’s odd.” She hummed a few more.
His browse creased in thought, and as if oblivious to his confusion she continued on humming, and then at last through her parted lips, “..l’amour est une oiseau rebelle.”
French, he thought, the music’s French. Before he could ask her about it, she pressed her lips against the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and whispered, “Love is a gypsy boy, 'tis true, he ever was and ever will be free; love you not me, then I love you.”
In mid-sway, she stopped.
Her voice was notably strained, and anxious, “You know I love you, right?”
He could only answer, “Yes I know,” and wish he could ask of her the same. Si je t'aime, prends garde à toi. Yet, if I love you, beware of me.
Mercy's eyes are blue
When she places them in front of you.
Nothing really holds a candle to
The solemn warmth you feel inside.
Notes:
The song she is singing, and the line at the end is from Bizet's Carmen.
The four last lines are from the final verse of Saint Simon by The Shins.
Take the comma between "thought" and "and" and stick it between "and" and "as". Also put a comma between "confusion" and "she".
It's very pretty, and the song at the end melds with the piece very dramatically, though it kind of pops in there without any further forshadowing, which might take some readers by surprise.
