Post by thepolygotnerd on Mar 1, 2007 11:21:18 GMT -5
This is a final scene to a story I'm writing. Please inform me as to how lame it is/what needs doing etc.
Many thanks
They stumbled through the virtual darkness, leaning on each other, and successfully avoiding every pool of yellow light, despite the street lamps best efforts. In their gazes, there was nothing but indulgent playfulness, but in the bitten lips, and cut-short sentences, there was something deeper, and more serious.
Both of them knew exactly how this night might end, and both waited for the other to call an end to it.
But neither of them did.
Bridie pulled Arthus along by his wrists, like a child impatient to visit the fairground, her smiles sly and teasing. He played along, feigning reluctance, and attempting, very feebly, to escape.
Needless to say, he didn’t.
The route from the restaurant to Bridie’s house was a long one. Arthus had been about to call a cab, when she had suggested that they walk.
Now, she almost wished that she hadn’t.
As the journey progressed, the Irish woman had become increasingly aware that she was involved in a kind of dance. Merry, it was, certainly, and engaging, and exciting. Everything that such a ballet should be.
But an undercurrent of danger ran beneath the bubbly surface. And yet, this seemed to make it even more enticing. Though she knew it was unwise, she couldn’t stop herself now. She had been taken over by alcohol, conversation, and recklessness. And despite everything that Bridie’s common sense told her, she couldn’t stop dancing.
Not yet.
And besides, it wasn’t as though he was a stranger. This was Arthus – her first love. Her first lover. Despite Bridie’s assertions, she had not been a virgin on her wedding night. But, of course, David had known that. He had known everything about her. He could see through his wife like paper.
Internally, Bridie frowned. Now was not the time to be thinking about that. David was dead. Gone. He had left her, just as surely as if he had run off with another woman. And she had someone else now.
She had Arthus.
Suddenly, impulsively, she smiled at her companion, and placed a pale hand on his arm. She held his periwinkle blue eyes in her own beetle-black for what seemed like a lifetime. Electricity crackled between them, in more than a metaphorical sense.
And then, she pirouetted away.
He reached out an arm, and grabbed her hand, pulling her towards him, sharply. Arthus clutched her tight in his arms, so tight she couldn’t move. She looked into his face, and realised, all of a sudden, that her lips were but a centimetre away from his. They remained like that, warm breath mingling, and turning to mist in the crisp December air.
And owl’s screech caused them to break apart.
The mood had broken.
The tension, which had made the night so exciting, was now simply uncomfortable. They didn’t touch each other as they had before. Bridie hardly dared look at him. What had been normal a few minutes ago had become impossible, taboo. And yet, she wanted to touch him all the more.
They walked on in silence, the air between them thick and stifling. Once or twice, she tried to say something, but the words were dismissed before they left her mouth. She didn’t need him to think she’d lost her sense, as well as her husband, in the ten years they’d been apart.
It was ten past midnight when they reached her door. She fumbled for her keys, as quickly as she could, and placed them in the lock, turning it with a sharp click. She moved her back to the door, and somehow managed to meet his gaze once more. Bridie even summoned a smile.
“Thank you. It was a wonderful evening.”
His face was devoid of emotion.
“Only as wonderful as the company.”
He stepped closer to her, so that their bodies were touching, and leaned down to kiss her. Their lips met, and all the awkwardness was suddenly gone. Fire was in its place.
He pushed her inside, closing the door behind him with a fierce bang, their lips never parting. They moved across the room, blind, knocking everything possible off of every surface, until they came to a stop against one of the living room walls. Hands fumbled for the edges of clothes, desperately seeking skin.
Deeper inside the house, a baby began to cry.
It was Bridie who broke away, and ran up the stairs, leaving Arthus reeling in her wake. She was still a mother, after all.
The tall, blonde man waited for an age. He tried moving around, from wall, to sofa, to easy chair, but it didn’t make the time go faster. Finally, as the clock struck one, she came down the staircase.
No words were exchanged, as she took him by the hand, nor when she led him back up the narrow steps. She paused outside a doorway, and, very gently, placed a kiss on his mouth.
Arthus smiled, and Bridie’s face echoed the gesture.
Then she pulled him into her room, and, finally, the tension was broken.
Many thanks
They stumbled through the virtual darkness, leaning on each other, and successfully avoiding every pool of yellow light, despite the street lamps best efforts. In their gazes, there was nothing but indulgent playfulness, but in the bitten lips, and cut-short sentences, there was something deeper, and more serious.
Both of them knew exactly how this night might end, and both waited for the other to call an end to it.
But neither of them did.
Bridie pulled Arthus along by his wrists, like a child impatient to visit the fairground, her smiles sly and teasing. He played along, feigning reluctance, and attempting, very feebly, to escape.
Needless to say, he didn’t.
The route from the restaurant to Bridie’s house was a long one. Arthus had been about to call a cab, when she had suggested that they walk.
Now, she almost wished that she hadn’t.
As the journey progressed, the Irish woman had become increasingly aware that she was involved in a kind of dance. Merry, it was, certainly, and engaging, and exciting. Everything that such a ballet should be.
But an undercurrent of danger ran beneath the bubbly surface. And yet, this seemed to make it even more enticing. Though she knew it was unwise, she couldn’t stop herself now. She had been taken over by alcohol, conversation, and recklessness. And despite everything that Bridie’s common sense told her, she couldn’t stop dancing.
Not yet.
And besides, it wasn’t as though he was a stranger. This was Arthus – her first love. Her first lover. Despite Bridie’s assertions, she had not been a virgin on her wedding night. But, of course, David had known that. He had known everything about her. He could see through his wife like paper.
Internally, Bridie frowned. Now was not the time to be thinking about that. David was dead. Gone. He had left her, just as surely as if he had run off with another woman. And she had someone else now.
She had Arthus.
Suddenly, impulsively, she smiled at her companion, and placed a pale hand on his arm. She held his periwinkle blue eyes in her own beetle-black for what seemed like a lifetime. Electricity crackled between them, in more than a metaphorical sense.
And then, she pirouetted away.
He reached out an arm, and grabbed her hand, pulling her towards him, sharply. Arthus clutched her tight in his arms, so tight she couldn’t move. She looked into his face, and realised, all of a sudden, that her lips were but a centimetre away from his. They remained like that, warm breath mingling, and turning to mist in the crisp December air.
And owl’s screech caused them to break apart.
The mood had broken.
The tension, which had made the night so exciting, was now simply uncomfortable. They didn’t touch each other as they had before. Bridie hardly dared look at him. What had been normal a few minutes ago had become impossible, taboo. And yet, she wanted to touch him all the more.
They walked on in silence, the air between them thick and stifling. Once or twice, she tried to say something, but the words were dismissed before they left her mouth. She didn’t need him to think she’d lost her sense, as well as her husband, in the ten years they’d been apart.
It was ten past midnight when they reached her door. She fumbled for her keys, as quickly as she could, and placed them in the lock, turning it with a sharp click. She moved her back to the door, and somehow managed to meet his gaze once more. Bridie even summoned a smile.
“Thank you. It was a wonderful evening.”
His face was devoid of emotion.
“Only as wonderful as the company.”
He stepped closer to her, so that their bodies were touching, and leaned down to kiss her. Their lips met, and all the awkwardness was suddenly gone. Fire was in its place.
He pushed her inside, closing the door behind him with a fierce bang, their lips never parting. They moved across the room, blind, knocking everything possible off of every surface, until they came to a stop against one of the living room walls. Hands fumbled for the edges of clothes, desperately seeking skin.
Deeper inside the house, a baby began to cry.
It was Bridie who broke away, and ran up the stairs, leaving Arthus reeling in her wake. She was still a mother, after all.
The tall, blonde man waited for an age. He tried moving around, from wall, to sofa, to easy chair, but it didn’t make the time go faster. Finally, as the clock struck one, she came down the staircase.
No words were exchanged, as she took him by the hand, nor when she led him back up the narrow steps. She paused outside a doorway, and, very gently, placed a kiss on his mouth.
Arthus smiled, and Bridie’s face echoed the gesture.
Then she pulled him into her room, and, finally, the tension was broken.
