Young Writers Society

Exordium

Two lights on a dim reflection, dull eyes gazing halfway at the mirror, a man in the shadows, a question, still, savory, that hangs in the air overhead, just unreachable above the buzzing. A hand under the chin, calloused, large, tilting the head up, hair back, eyes to the ceiling, tiled panels; and now a face hovering where the panels had been. Shaggy blonde hair, five o’clock shadow, green eyes. Green, green eyes. Heavy breathing.

Are you listening to me?

Tangy words, like tangerines, like salt, like sweat. Hot breath on high cheekbones. Hands running up the face to cover half-open eyes. I asked you your name.

These words, filling up a large and empty head, like a dimmed auditorium or gymnasium, bouncing off the walls.

Amelia.

This is the word she would say if she could part her lips just right, without ruining the 0.33 mm crevice between the center of her upper lip. But she had said it, she must have, otherwise why would his fingers be clutching more tightly, his eyes crinkling like they should be smiling even though his lips were down turned?

And now, softness, a hand caressing her neck, an invasive presence in her brain, pounding, where he must be. Words reverberating; are you sure?

A slight parting of the lips, head being moved back down so she was facing her reflection again, as if being asked to examine it, the ins and outs where he had already been.

Is she sure?

She tries to look at herself, but it’s too dark, and the mirror too filthy; she sees blonde hair that curls in tendrils and high cheekbones, she sees prim hands folded on a prim lap, and there, him, still, in the shadows.

No.

She is not sure. She wishes that she were. But you see, he knows what she wishes that she were, he is peering into the reflection of her eyes and into her auditorium, filling it up for her, so she doesn’t have to be sure. He will take care of everything.

This is the promise.

She fingers her wedding band.

That was always the promise.

If she were sure of that, though, she might be more comfortable.

1.

He kneels in front of her, as she sits at the foot of the bed, feet dangling. She’s wearing soft slippers and thin slacks, a knit top. He’s looking at her, and she’s looking ahead to avoid his stare. There is something subversively wrong with this picture. Pasty blue walls with posies and daffodils painted over the border, curtains drawn, a maroon bedspread, lace-trimmed pillows, a man kneeling at the foot of the bed, gazing at his wife, hands crossed over her lap.

He smiles.

She looks down at him.

He reaches up and curls her hair around his fingers, rough, brown. She peers down at him.

He says, “Amelia.”

She looks the other way.

He sits up, rubbing his sore knees from kneeling on the floor for so long.

“Amelia,” he whispers in her ear.

He has to reach out, take her chin and tilt her head before she will look at him.

“Answer me, Amelia.”

“What is it?” she asks. He watches her lips part, contort into that semi-circle, and fall back down, overlapping like folded sheets.

“I have…I have a task for you.”

She bores into him with those blue eyes, face unchanging. He waits for a response but, getting no response, stands up and shuffles around the desk drawer. She follows him with her eyes. He finally finds what he’s looking for, and comes back around to her holding a notebook and ballpoint pen.

Her eyes change just slightly, so that her expression is quizzical, but her lips remain flat. He holds them out to her. She doesn’t move or respond.

He continues to hold them to her.

Fifteen minutes pass, then half an hour.

He smiles.

She flinches and, slowly, lifts pale hands, subjectively taking the items from his outstretched hands.

He grins. “Good girl.”

She places them carefully on her lap and looks straight ahead.

“Do you know what I want you to do with those, little sweetheart?” he asks, his voice a whisper in the wind, stretching out into infinite blackness.

Her face changes as she tries to guess. She believes it’s an answer she needs to-or should-know the answer to.

“Would you like me to tell you?”

She nods her head, mechanical.

“I want you,” he pats her hand on top of the notebook, “To write down everything that you know or remember, right there, into that notebook. Can you do that for Theodore? Can you do that for Teddy, darling?”

She looks at him.

“I can let you alone to finish the task, if you like. That’s it, you can go down to the laboratory room, take as long as you like. Weeks, if you think. I’ll bring your food down. Come, let’s go.”

He takes her silk hand in his, and tugs her up. She eyes him like she the deer and he the bear, like she understands that she is prey. She tilts herself back, pulling away from his iron grasp. He chuckles and yanks her forward so that her balance is tilted, and she stumbles forward in those three-inch pumps, tumbling onto her knees.

He could have extended his arm just slightly, and caught her, but he chose not to. It was more interesting to watch her fall, see how her hair tumbled over her shoulders, how she bit her lip just slightly to keep a moan from passing by her lips. He waits for her to stand up, but instead she just looks up, her hair falling back, as though he would extend a hand to her.

A ridiculous notion.

He waits for a moment as she resigns herself and pushes herself up, fingers crinkling on the plush white carpet, wedding ring half-covered in the flesh of her knuckles. She brushes off her navy blue skirt and yanks on her cuffs before emitting a quick breath and standing there, still.

He says, “Are you going to force me into forcing you, darling? You wouldn’t make me do that, now, would you?”

She isn’t sure how to argue with him, she opens her mouth but closes it again to make those folds, little pink folds, soft, pink folds, slight lines on her dominant upper lip, chapping near the corners, tired folds, twenty-six years worth of folds.

He reaches over her to swing the door open; it creaks on its hinges.

“After you, of course,” he says with a jubilant air.

She pauses, then steps through the door, her left hand brushing her hair back over her right ear, gaining some composure back.