Goodman.


*(Category: Short Stories.)* This Category, SHORT STORIES, contains occasionally implied and sometimes explicit imagery. Should you hold certain scruples with regard to censorship, please keep in mind that you are reading stories, under advisement, and apply adult responsibility when viewing this material. Thank you!

CHAPTER TWO.

***************

Blearied eyes, she emerges from her dark bed into the dimly blue light. The screensaver mocks. There’d been at least four this morning, the first deep, the after-shocks multiple, lurching and groaning, then crying, tears of disgust, contempt, rage, at him.

No matter that he doesn’t get it. What matters is her own survival, as always, her private response to every moment, event, imposition, assault, expectation. She, alone. And, she has learned to know her own soul and mind, her body’s responses, their intricacies, their circuits. The most earnest of men merely learned to ride along.

The equivalent in effect would have been for her to have aimed the Polaroid at full engorgement, snapped it at the moment her eyes rolled back into her head; scan, save, print: Send.

There.

The best she could have done under the circumstances would be to search a childbirth video for some really purple stills just prior to crowning. Good grief! What difference would it make? Foul, viscous, bacterial, resembling some reduced image of a sewer pipe beneath a polluted creekbank. “You can have it, babe”.

Her thought is bitter in her own mouth. She searches for solace in her own dark, illuminated eyes, her long slim neck, her Grecian orbs, her waist leading into its round fullness……

But, his.

Too late for her to point out that, at one extreme, she’d expected maybe a seated nude, the lines of his nearly perfect body conforming to some softly absorbing cushion, lean hands draped languidly across one thigh or following his arms above a pensive, contemplative face.

Or, perhaps he’d have appeared standing, glancing sidelong at her.

Instead, a headless monster. The screen opened to reveal some generic version of the perfect skeleton, dressed in raw muscle and satin skin. A paperdoll in performance. Any man’s machinery, anybody’s guess.

She recalls mentioning that, for some things, time must pass. But, he’d turned the clock ahead, into another zone, through some gargoylian portal to a different dimension. Now, if ever he wanted her to follow him, to infinity, to anonymity, he’d have to replace that monster with himself.

* * * * * * * *

Word came that first week of June. She’d called to keep their usual coaching consult appointment. The receptionist’s voice had caught, in a momentary silence, the length of one heartbeat. Had she not heard? There’d been a terrible accident.

Somewhere between American Fork and Park City, the white Neon had cut erratically across the median, then been hit broadside by an oncoming rig and burst into flames, incinerating the one and possibly second occupant.

Hummer?

No; he had never owned a Hummer.

Private jet?

Had the caller mistaken him for somebody else?

.

.

.

.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo 6/2003 ; modified 1/19/15

All rights, reserved. Absolutely every word. Thank you.

littlebarefeetblog.com

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