Living Water
June 27, 2018
All of the lovers in the stars. Blindly waiting for a better outcome. Giving into the carnal need of the flesh with which they entice their other halves. Water breaking on jagged rocks with an assorted whistle tone. Eyes become wet with sadness, as their pupils dilate into miniature black pools of forgotten memories. He brings the back of his hand to her face, gently caressing her cheek. She smiles and glances at him, only for a few seconds. She takes his hand and pushes it away. Love is only a distraction, an internal soliloquy of vague niceties and projected insecurities. Out loud the dialogue is regressive in nature. Repetition becomes his answer to everything, an example of the words that take shape at the corners of his lips. The word “sorry” becomes a place holder for what he actually means. What he means to say is that he cannot wait to hurt her again. He cannot wait to make her feel inadequate as a woman, to have one more degree of power over her as she urges to be needed. She forgets the red marks on her forearm, only for a moment. The fingerprints he’s left engraved into her body like a sheath of dead skin cells and whiskey sours. A dark night, the windows shaking as the wind sings its angry song and waves crash at the shore like giant fists against a wooden table. The same wooden table he punted her into when she finally spoke up. He says her mistake was thinking she was entitled to an opinion. The pain slowly grows in her belly from the aggressive and unexpected blow. If only she knew her place. If only he had worked late, late enough for her to finish dinner. The smell of undercooked chicken pot pies wafting in the air. The temperature rising drastically because she forgot to close the oven. The sound of keys jingling on the deadbolt of the front door, a similar sound to the chimes that hang above the window on the porch, just a different timbre. Footsteps rustling swiftly as he wipes his feet on the door mat.
She lies coiled over on the floor like a new-born baby, only she wishes she were never born. Only she wishes she would have never said yes to him. A blue silk dress and a hotel lobby. Giant gold planters provide a home for overgrown yucca palms and the succulents that have found comfort in the cool soil at the base of such erect trees. The roots tangled and messy, yet from the outside she compliments their symmetry. However, on the inside, deep within the soil, the assortment of tropical foliage tells a different story. The wet soil slowly drowning such beautiful creatures because the water by which they are to be nourished has neglected to care for them. It has turned its back on them, oversaturated and cold, slowly withering as the leaves of the yucca palms begin to turn pale yellow at the tips and the succulents deepen in color, and their stems soften to nothing more than a pulp. He bumps into her, both of them distracted by the world and its ill-fated and not-so-serendipitous plan. His luggage topples over and spills out ever so slightly. His brow furrows as he scans the ground with an intense stare and his cheeks turn an ominous shade of crimson. She steps back, worried she might have been responsible for knocking his belongings over. He lifts his head up as their eyes meet, she has pale blue eyes, a similar shade to the dress that drapes over her soft figure. He has dark brown eyes, emotionless but nevertheless inviting. He traces the seams of her collar with a quiet glare, up, down, then up again, then at her face. The deep plunge of the fabric as darts contour her gown to her breasts. He tries not to linger too long. She notices his big hands, no rings on any fingers. He adjusts the waistband of his trousers and folds over just enough to loosen the tuck of his shirt.
“Hello there,” his voice gravelly, as if he were nervous. “I’m sorry; I wasn’t paying any attention.”
She smiles at him, gracefully bringing the tips of her fingers together as she extends her gloved hand in front of her. “It’s okay… My name’s Grette,” her shoulders open wide forcing out her chest.
“Pleasure,” their hands meet as he notices the bracelet on her wrist and the words tattooed on her forearm, LIVING WATER. “The name’s Xan.”
A chilled glass of wine sitting on a coffee table. Her bra undone, she loosened it while he cleaned up in the washroom. She sits on the edge of the sofa anticipating what’s to come. She smells the room service he had delivered just moments ago. The sweet aroma of citrus overpowers her senses as it contrasts with the bitter taste of merlot on her lips. A book sits on the edge of the bed, open, half-read, non-fiction. A white towel on the floor by the front door. She notices the change in color at the palms of her hands, a pink undertone that seemed comically different in comparison to the latte colour in between her thighs. The room now even cooler than when he brought her up to his suite to have a drink.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he says through the closed door. “I won’t take too long.”
