Ang
“Marchon, the gate is wide open in the complex and I’m looking down a long, retreating corridor. Come over tonight and make me the happiest man in the valley.”
The 1940’s Studebaker rolled effortlessly down Sondrick Lane purring like a feline with its chrome pieces extended, glistening in the sun and it’s buttercream leather seats. The engine noise as soft as baby-skin and LeRou draped over the bucket seat snuggled warm in Vucana wool and Charmeuse at Marvin Bexer’s side. She looked and was a million-buck babe!
Marchon often lamented, that time was a great healer but the hurt that hurts the keenest was seeing another woman happy in the arms of your lover.
“It tears you in two, I don’t truck with jealousy. Sure, I always feel joy for the lady, except that the knife in my chest makes it impossible to smile.”
She turned from the shuttered, sash window and the sunlight left her perfect outline an orange-tinged sunburst that eclipsed the hanging, window blinds. Slant lines blanched across her trim body, striped with a lasered light that filtered through the haze from the corner window as she stood ‘smoking’ in the centre of the room and in every sense of the word!
“We think of others too much Angie! We should spend more time on ourselves. There’s love and then there is lot’s we like to do. We should get a place on the outskirts of town. Have a shack built near Thunder Falls where we could walk and you could learn to river-fish, buy a puppy-dog, you would just love a fluffy mutt. Take time for just the two of us and stop caring so much.”
She rolled the thick, black cheroot between her fingers, blowing plumes of smoke high into the tall, stone-white ceiling-space while she stepped around the room like she was a ballet star warming up. She described her words and thoughts in steps and shapes with exaggerated arm and leg movements, making arcs with her arms and pointing her toes like a regular Margot Fonteyn.
Marchon knew that he loved to watch her ‘perform’. Her body, lithe and lean and well developed in all the right places, moved effortlessly around in the diffused, shadowed aura of their room, her feet feeling the smooth, polished plank flooring or the wool pile of the large, Egyptian-Mumluk rug that Ang had bought her home from that long trip last fall.
Marchon sat on the rug, smoking the cheroot.
“Nothing makes sense anymore when your heart is broken Ang! Is it worse than a bereavement? How can you mourn the loss of a lover? The loss of a friend?”
Ang, was he smiling? He just listened, as he always did.
edenbray - the poet - SITE A 