That tight, hollow ache in her chest starting filling with strenuous palpitations. She noticed her fists were clenched. As she loosened her grip and stroked her hot clammy palms, she gave herself a little pep talk.
"You can do this, Cybol," she thought. "You were made for this moment. Don't blow it. Be yourself."
The voice of her mother and father, berating and encouraging.
She fell back into the booth, slinking into the cover of the unlighted boundary. Mindlessly, she raised her hand to her face and cupped her lower jaw, delicately dabbing her cheek. This unconscious habit always followed the sudden anxious flutter that flushed her cheeks and sent a hot chill down her arms.
He hadn't spoken again. How long had they been silent? She turned her faced to the entrance, still cradling her cheek and could just make out the corner of a window to confirm that it was still morning.
He hadn't moved. He watched her shift and relaxed at her subtle self-conscious movements. He knew women. He smiled as her pale, slender fingers passed through the amber light and reach toward her face. When she turned her head, her hair, clumsily pulled into a loose twist flashed from behind the darkness, a crimson, copper red. His dream flooded back into his memory and filled him up.
That red hair. It was loose and fell down her back. Her skin wasn't pale, but iridescent; not reflecting the light, but somehow, emanating it. Though at first her visits were ethereal and filled his mind with a voice that carried wisdom and inspiration, it wasn't long before they became sexual. It didn't take long for anything to become sexual in his life. Women were always drawn to his inner fury, an insatiable, incendiary passion that inevitably destroyed every moth to the flame.
He sat, silent, regretting his last confession. He didn't want to tell her. He watched her sip on her scotch again. He waited for her to speak.
"I hadn't thought of that. It didn't occur to me that you would be told of me as well. Do you know my name?"
"No."
He folded deeper into the memory of those vivid dreams. Had he heard a name? Sigh. He heard himself call out, "Sigh."
Her long fingers coiled around the highball glass and her left forearm stretched over the sticky brown table. With the instinct of a familiar lover, he let his right hand fall over hers, the thick expanse of it covering it completely.
"Sigh?"
She leaned forward. He followed suit. He watched her green eyes flash fiercely with betrayal.
"Only my mother calls me that, Cy. My name is Cybol. And, you're Vincent."
12 years ago
Posts
