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I'm new, unskilled, and overflowing with self esteem. I hope to remedy at least one of these by participating here. I'm in. (if that was unclear) black.lion fucked around with this message at 18:20 on Mar 26, 2013 |
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Mar 26, 2013 14:51
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| # ¿ Dec 12, 2024 05:40 |
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Loosely inspired by Papa Was A Rolling Stone by The Temptations Very loosely. 1193 words (please don't count my contractions as two words  )Gathering No Moss A comfortable few nights had been afforded to Max by the woman he left in bed behind him. A bright spring morning in 1946, he slid out of the velvet sheets and gathered his scattered black articles of clothing from around the room. Practiced movements silently reassembled his suit, and he allowed a glance back at what he was leaving: deep purple silk poured over pale curves. Clipping his silver cufflinks into place, he eased the heavy oak door closed and settled into the seat of his black Lincoln. In the back rested a leather bag, the corner of a $50 bill caught in the zipper. Max pulled it free and slipped the bill into the pocket if his gold-patterned waist coat. He pushed his hair into place and headed home. Max had last seen his family in the winter of 1940. His wife, Maddie, had suggested that he propose marriage after they graduated high school, so he did. Since being wed, she had allowed her husband the folly of being a tailor of middling skill, but their daughter Daisy was thirteen now and Maddie felt an improved financial situation would mean an improved social situation. As far as her mother was concerned, once Daisy was placed in a fiscally sound marriage Max could make as many bad suits as he pleased. His shop closed, and Max arranged a meeting with a less-than-reputable “businessman.” While the man found him likeable, Max was not imposing enough to be suited to the less-than-legitimate work available. He’d been granted some consolatory attention by the young lady sitting at the bar, buying his drinks for a simple smile. He had few talents, but he'd always done well with women. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone” – he intended only a few months. “Do I want to know what you’re doing?” Maddie asked curiously, not a trace of worry – “Whatever it is, you’re doing it for your family. We know that.” Daisy clung to her mother’s yellow skirt, crying, refusing to look at her father. Now Max could scarcely remember his daughter’s face. It took some months for Max to settle into his new craft. At first he was leaving in the night with a wallet or some jewelry, eventually realizing that women would often pay him willingly in exchange for a small deception and an exhaustive evening. He sent money back home, and the occasional letter. He never received a reply; he never waited for one. Just before sunset, Max settled the black Lincoln at a motel a few miles outside of town. A diner shone across the street. Silver cufflinks flashed as he opened the door and eased into the nearest booth, black suit cutting an inky silhouette against the pastels and creams of the young couples around him. The diner’s interior was entirely white tile and chrome. He looked down at the menu as the waitress approached. “What’ll ya have, sweetheart?” “Just whisky right now, thanks.” Max looked up to find a nose and cheeks sprayed with freckles, a body balanced between lithe youth and the fullness of maturity. Pinned to the blue checked uniform wrapped around her was a plastic nametag, reading “Ali.” He realized he was staring, but was rewarded with a shy smile. The dress barely contained her, he thought, watching her walk away with a pronounced swing in her hips. She brought the glass back and set it down, sitting again. “Ali, like Allison?” he inquired. “Like Ali!” she insisted playfully. “Lovely…” he breathed, looking at her. Biting on her lower lip, Ali chanced, “I’m getting off in a few minutes, so if you’re not hungry…” Max pulled the $50 bill out of his waistcoat and left it on the table, rising smoothly to open the door and abandoning the whisky. She glanced over her shoulder before scampering out ahead of him. Barely another word was exchanged before she was sliding the door lock closed and slipping her dress down into a puddle around her ankles. Six years without sleeping in a bed of his own: he intended to remember this last night, the feeling of her rolling hips, the sound of her quiet whispers in his ear. The black Lincoln glided out under the rising sun, headed home. When he arrived he parked at the curb, ignoring the space in the driveway. The distant familiarity of the building surprised him. Maddie opened the door before he could knock, with a smile both wide and calm. Her dress matched the furniture she’d filled the once-spacious house with, plush maroon cloth with gold accents. “Welcome home” she invited, moving aside for him to enter. He felt like a stranger in this woman’s house, but the bar hadn’t moved: he found a glass and a bottle. After a settling swallow, Max turned to his wife. “How have you been?” “I’ve been well – we’ve been well” she said, gesturing around. “Happy to be of service” he offered, raising his glass awkwardly. He was unsure of what to say. He imagined trying “I’ve missed you” and found it lacking in conviction. Maddie maintained the same relaxed smile and said, “I’m sure Alexandra will be happy to see you when she returns; her presence is so rare lately, I sometimes wonder if I have a daughter at all!” She giggled mechanically. “You mean Daisy?” he asked absently, distracted by the decoration. "A child’s name, according to her – she has preferred 'Alexandra' for some time now.” The door behind them opened and a young lady stepped through in her blue checked dress. He could still hear her gasp, feel her shaking against him. “Young lady, you knew to expect your father today. Where have you been?” There was a swell of silence – their eyes met and the realization boiled between them. Max’s heartbeat filled his ears. He was vaguely aware of having fallen to his knees, tears pressing between his fingers and dripping over his silver cufflinks. Ali retreated a few steps before a long wail tore out of her – Max did not see her run. He awoke to Maddie’s stern voice; all he heard was “…not your home.” Winter had eventually set in, and one of Max’s letters had won a response. Written was only a time and place at which Maddie would meet him. She was early to the coffee shop: bundled in a white fur coat, she ordered two cups and found a small table. She sipped one cup, leaving bright-red lipstick on the rim - she pulled a sugar cube from her purse and watched as it dissolved in the other. Max arrived, placed himself across from her, and reached for the full cup. He gulped nervously and glanced up, a wild look in his eyes. He hadn’t slept in weeks. She watched him quietly as he drank. “Twenty-seven days ago I found Alexandra in the bath. She’d opened her wrists with my razor. She’s already buried.” Maddie’s words were calm as ever, and she immediately left. Max stumbled out onto the sidewalk toward his apartment, collapsing after a few steps. His final thought was of a young girl’s rhythmic moaning. e: A typo that I swear I changed before black.lion fucked around with this message at 18:29 on Mar 31, 2013 |
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Mar 31, 2013 03:47
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