Man in Wood

Man in Wood
chapter - Eva and Ade

Thursday 15 March 2012

Tremble like a flower


She leaves the room turning slightly that doll of a head she wears to offer him a warm yet guarded smile. A lot older than she looked last night, he thought. He sits on the bed and lights one of her extra longs. He looks at his whiskey soaked face in the wardrobe mirror and sighs heavily.
He walks into the hallway where he watches her through the semi open toilet door, peeing; She looks over to the sink and curses for some reason.
She has a coughing fit. Spits something vile between her thighs into the bowl.
There is not much paper.
A bluebottle fly lands on her knee and stays there unnoticed.
He thought about the Bowie song they played at the bar last night. The lyrics ‘if you should fall into my arms and tremble like a flower’
He didn’t know why he thought of that particular verse. He didn’t care much for Bowie. He didn’t care much for music. He didn’t get it. Didn’t understand the dancing, the singing along, and the idol worship. But those lyrics ‘if you should fall into my arms and tremble like a flower’
She wipes between her legs and flushes.

He walks back to the window where he sees an old lady with a cane crossing the street.
The late morning sun shines bright through the lace curtains window the old girl makes it to other side of the street. He smiles.
The sunlight gleams on his face making him momentarily unrecognisable. A phantom
Burning bright.
White.
Light.

He sits in silence beside her on the bed. Sex followed by breakfast that only happened with his ex wife. Burnt toast and marmalade followed by a dose of rowing- how we gonna pay the rent this month?
I’ll get a job.
How many times have I heard that hey?
The interview went well yesterday.
So?
They’re gonna call me back.
Yeah’ she would say’ yeah, when chicken have teeth’ She was French strange expressions but nice accent. That’s why he fell for her. Her accent, her perfect way of touch, her caress, soft gracefully moving hands. Her neck. Her back. And when she smiled.
Bitch.


‘Hey’ she calls. He ignores her. ‘Was I good’. She asks once more revealing a bit of skin through her opened gown.
Yeah.
‘Yeah’ she repeats. ‘Yeah’ ‘I was good’ she says exasperatingly. They sit in silence. She blows a blue thin line from her cigarette before stubbing it out.
‘So what’s your name then?’
He lies. Well it was a name they called him at school all those years ago. They teased him with it and it was not even his name. But it stuck so he chose to use it from time to time.
She laughs and repeats his name again and again shaking her head in disbelief. But it’s cute she says
‘you know why they call me Rita don’t you?’
‘no.
Hayworth. Rita Hayworth, some people say I look like her. I do a bit. What do you think?
‘Yeah. I suppose you do.’
She did a bit.

She removes the belt from her dressing gown and lassoes it around his waist. She calls his name. Playfully she brings the belt up towards his neck pulling him towards her. Again she calls his name in a seductive manner whilst tugging at his neck. He struggles a little. Her gown apart and breast revealed, nipples pointing to the heavens. She laughs as she tugs the belt. That wide mouth of hers with smeared red lipstick and a perfect set of dentures, maybe. He becomes slightly annoyed and pulls away. But she pulls him closer. He looks that wide laughing mouth. He places his hand around her neck and begins to squeeze, softly at first. She laughs and sticks her tongue out mischievously. But he increases the pressure around neck, her eyes larger than usual. She shakes her head from side to side. He has reached a point where there can be no going back. She begins to splutter, gasping for air. He continues to squeeze. Harder. She kicks her legs, kicking the silver breakfast tray off the bed. An orange roll perfectly out the bedroom door and down a couple of steps on the stairs.
He squeezes. Harder. She kicks her legs fighting for her dear life. Foam at the corners of that mouth. Beads of sweat settled on forehead.
The smell of urine.
She kicks struggles, eyes bulging.
And he squeezes.
Squeezing the very life out of her. Until nothing. Stillness.
One lifeless hand hangs of the bed.
He sits on the floor head down between his thighs.
The sixth commandment.
‘I’ll have time to think about that one’ he thought.
Then that song.
‘tremble like a flower’

Wednesday 14 March 2012

that stands outside


She gradually steps out of the bed pulling the sheet around her nakedness as she does so. The few minutes that she had laid there on her back while her husband routinely went about his business was mercifully done. He dresses for work, his colourful yellow tie with the characteristically dull office suit adding an extra touch of unattractiveness she had previously been unaware of. He splashes some common cologne on his cheeks looking quite smug at his reflection through the mirror on the dressing table, the new Ikea dresser which just as her husband she had grown to dislike. I mean neither was unkind to her.
‘How do I look? He proclaims with astonishing assurance.
The same as you always look, utterly boring and lifeless.
She bites on her lower lip before answering.
‘Great’.
‘I’d best be going. I’ll be late and I’m not project manager just yet and even if I were it would be of principal importance that I for one should …
His words float pointlessly around the room feeding those walls that may have ears.
He walks over to her and kisses her softly.
He says something funny that makes her force a smile eager to give momentum to his exist. He kisses on the forehead and calls her a silly nickname, one I fail to remember but certainly nauseating.
At the bedroom door he says goodbye once again calling her by that silly nickname. She throws him a half-smiles. He hesitates at the door before finally leaving. She faces the door until she hears him take the stairs, close the front door, cross the cobbled driveway, start the engine of the company car and hit the gas peddle.
She throws herself back on the bed eyes closed at first before looking up at the forever-white ceiling, it is the forever-ness of it all that brings on the sudden bout of depression.
Her left hand caresses the cool of the bedroom wall above the bed head.

Under the shower she thinks about the hands of her lover as she washed away the remains of her husband’s frequently abhorrent scent. What was it about his hands that she loved so much? She checks for lumps though usually afraid. The power shower drowns out the sounds of activity in the house to enhance her escape into fantasy. She knows nothing about that that stands outside.
She bends to pick up the green bottle of hair conditioner and thinks about those hands.

Monday 12 March 2012

she stood by the bedroom window



‘ I like your hands’ she says, ‘you have hands like my father’
‘your father’s hands´ he says. ‘
‘And my father’s mouth.
Your father’s mouth?’
‘My father was an artist. He made wooden sculptors´ he had hands like an artist
I’m not an artist he says. You are’
No I’m not’ she replies. I work in a shoe shop.
‘I thought you painted.
Painted? I do like to paint though.
What kind of things?
She doesn’t answer.
I sell wood’ he says.
‘ I liked to paint’ she says after some time. ‘I’d like to paint your toes’
mistrust sets in.
my toes? why? He mutters.
Are you hungry?
A little’ he says.
I love the snow’ she says ‘it’s like a brand new page.