Cult of Color (LJi s8e6)
Boastful ramblings of personal achievement used to drone on for hours. I loathed every word. In an age when people seemed so wholly consumed with themselves, I grew steadily modest to stem the tide of vanity. In retrospect, it might have been more to mask my insecurity. I simply didn’t consider myself extraordinary. She was remarkable, though; brilliant, beautiful, unobtainable, strong…and yet, fragile.
I very rarely bring this up, but, in a way, I suppose I’d rather tell someone and see if they can believe it. You have my attention while my hands are on this bottle and flute. Do you want to hear a story?
Once upon a time, men followed my command; it was the time when old men like me were relevant. Nonetheless, I loved combat, and I was damn good at my job. A bloody, brutal war had become my proving ground. After weeks of firefights and mortars dodged, wild nights were upon us when our rest and relaxation privileges were returned. Our President held a banquet in honor of the soldiers who had defended him. It was years before we knew he’d be a terrible leader. I suppose if we had known, we would’ve been less enthusiastic about killing so many daughters, mothers, fathers, and sons in his name. But…enough on the guilt granted by hindsight, hmm?
Our revolution of gross fun led to foul formalities that became finer tests of my fortitude than any fortification or foxhole. French cuffs were worn as my alternative to the usual field jacket and boots. Cufflinks were worn in lieu of my rifle. Black ties and dinner jackets; the entire charade was overwhelming. A free meal was still free, though. These trust fund kiddies weren’t my usual crowd of hardened soldiers spitting bullets. Their eyes showed fear that men such as me might be absent one day. I suppose, in a way, they felt indebted. My existence allowed them to sleep at night under a false blanket of security.
I arrived on site at the hall, dressed in whites for the evening. My hair was service-short, and creases had settled around each wary eye, sight blurred from the bar before. It was going to be a long, lifeless night. The large stain glass windows, catering, white table cloths, and the beautifully dressed, brilliantly happy people filled cavernous rooms from the start of the gathering. Politicians, lobbyists, personalities, and celebrities topped the guest list. To avoid stupid inquiries, I reported to the nearest corner and posted.
With a glass of champagne in my hand, my fingertips itched to upset their balance for some purely selfish satisfaction. As I placed my hand under a serving table, my eyes caught the glimmer of nobility. Every light refracted from the lovely’s dressings, a gown surely made from the windows; each pane, another color. The radiant figure was wrapped in a resplendent rainbow. No one noticed her or me, the hero soldier plotting social terrorism. My wicked hand folded to my side. Creeping closer, the lady’s form was scarier than any explosive or gun I’d faced. Exuding such serenity and sincerity, she was incredibly becalmed, as if it was her blissful burden to be bound in bearings of blemish-free glass. To wonder if my eyes deceived me, to talk to this goddess, to just behold divinity first hand, to catch only a glimpse of her lips; my legs closed the distance.
Even the brunette’s hair seemed lighter than all other’s locks, so earthy yet of Eden. I was enchanted by this creature, being scared and perfectly captivated by her gaze. I was enthralled down to each fragment of self, every hollow of my heart and soul. Song filled my ringing ears over the sound of my slowing pulse. The hands of my watch froze to follow my wish for that moment to never end. My pointed toes moved independently of the rest of my body; my hands, reaching for her, to catch her, to hold her.
I twirled her, our feet meeting in rhythm. She smiled at me, and in our dance, neither name was given. We dared to remain speechless, for no words were needed between our hands and feet. Her glass dress was smooth silk under my fingers; her skin, supple as her dress. I lost myself in the deep pools of her hazel eyes, with only darting glances at her freckled cheeks and pink, pallid skin breaking my stare. For the first time that night or ever, I was comfortable in my monkey suit whites, stepping in rhythm. We met every beat with all four feet. She leaned into my hand resting on her back, arching into the perfect posture for our movement. In one dance, we knew everything about one another that we could possibly imagine. We were made for one another.
The song ended with the encore of a stolen kiss; my hopes were that it wouldn’t be our last. From the foulest recesses of zephyr caverns, a gush of wind surrounded us, every candle, every light flickered out. My goddess, my pearl, retreated into the darkness as I turned to face the source of confusion. Its baleful grin dripped saliva when I saw him. The staggering five foot lion of spotty mane, full teeth, thick neck, barrel chest, and tapering hindquarters filled a breastplate. Clawed hominid hands clutched a pollaxe. The blade was pointed at me. The stain glass princess, my Omphale, was defended by this lion of a man; she was a prisoner.
A blaze of fire engulfed and ravaged the enveloping darkness. Beyond the beast soldier, an exalted throne, upon which a crowned matron sat, cowed my resolve. The despot from her chair imposed her will over her warden and princess. Blood swept through channeled, illuminated walls and floor, feeding the potentate. I was the odd man out, trying but not fitting in. I swallowed back my fear in lumps, thinking of what to do. Rushing the guard only inches away from the darling glass gown, my feet stumbled clumsily over one another. I saw my reflection in the shine of its breastplate. The lion snickered at my charge. I knew its cruelty, arrogance, and pride; I held similar sinful traits. It knew fighting such calamity was pointless. I was as a pawn sizing up a knight and queen mere squares away.
My fist bashed at the beast with all my brawn. The polearm largely cleaved my chest, its wielder, unfazed and unimpressed by my strike. It basked in my pain and sorrow. I only saw my reflection in its blood-slick blade.
With a hand reaching for my girl, I begged to touch her or the splendid material of her glass-spun gown with a thrust of my arm. Sensing every precious yearning, her hand met mine, but the glass was fragile and cracked. Her brittle dress pierced her delicate flesh in bits of blood. She and I let go; we had to. The beast yapped in my face with a popping snarl and laugh, the teeth under its snout bared.
The throne watched in rueful boredom of the petty peasants before her. The queen darkly canted her thumb to the blood-let floor with all the careful measure of a parent punishing their child. I realized at that moment that I would never see my girl again; never kiss, dance or hold her again. We were made for one another. We’d never have one another.
I closed my eyes, sighing. Bars of music drowned out my thoughts with light glaring through both of my eyelids. There was no stab, no blood, no princess, no fire, and no queen when I looked up. The ballroom was where I started. My colleagues wondered why their great hero had been so silent, seemingly lost among his peers.
I asked about the dusky-haired, pale beauty in colorful trappings. No one had seen her, touched her, nor heard from or of her. It left too many questions. Was my tale one of fantasy, something read to children before bed? Was I simply dreaming over a glass of champagne, wishing and wanting to be anywhere but there? The pain felt as real as the glass I held. Her dress was cool as glass, brittle, yet unearthly smooth when we danced; fluid and light as linen. Her smiles radiated, and the heat of the fire made it hard to breath in my lucidity. It was all too real.
Of course, I never saw her again or the beast whose armor shone my reflection even in the darkest shade. Years rolled by. Now, anytime I drink champagne, I’m reminded of her and wonder if it ever happened; like now. Was she ever there? If she did, did she think of me as I did of her?
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